FAR TO SEEK

As part of my book is set in Lahore during the outbreak in April 1919, I want to make it clear that, while the main events are true to fact, the characters involved, both English and Indian, are completely fictional. At the same time, the views expressed by my Indian characters on the current situation are all based on the written or spoken opinions of real Indians—whether loyal or discontented, depending on the situation.

There were no major British casualties in Lahore, though there were many in other places. I've imagined one locally for the sake of my story. In every other way, I've stayed true to the recorded facts.

M.D.

By the blue glow underneath the beech trees, Roy realized that summer—"actually summer!"—had finally returned. And summer meant picnics, strawberries, outdoor lessons, the wonderful warm scent of pine needles in the pine forest, and the even nicer cool scent of moss in the beech forest—home to squirrels, birds, and bluebells; an endless wonderland of exploration and adventure.

Roy was a creative soul, somewhat distanced by being three and a half years older than Christine, and "miles older" than Jerry and George, who were just little kids, and didn’t understand the magical concept of adventure at all.

Luckily, there was Tara, from the black-and-white house: Tara, who shared his lessons and, despite the fact that she was a girl, had long ago made her way into his private world of chivalry and romance. Tara was eight years and five weeks old; quite a reasonable age in the eyes of Roy, whose full name was Nevil Le Roy Sinclair, and who would turn nine in June. With the exception of adults, who didn’t matter, there was no one older than nine in his immediate neighborhood. Tara was the closest: but she wouldn’t be nine until next year; and by that time, he would be ten. The point was, she couldn’t catch up to him no matter how hard she tried.

It was Tara's mom, Lady Despard, who came up with the great idea of sharing lessons, which would have been pretty lonely for both of them otherwise. But it was Roy's mom who had an even better idea of teaching them herself. Tara's mom would join in every now and then, but Roy's mom—who loved it more than anything—took the lion's share. And by now, Roy was old enough to be proudly aware of his good luck. Most other kids he knew were stuck with annoying governesses who wore ugly jackets and hats, who said things like "Don't eat with your mouth full" and "Don't argue about it!"—Roy's favorite offense. They would always tell him to "Look in the dictionary" when he came across an amazing new word and wanted to learn more about it. The dictionary, really! Roy privately thought of it as just one of the many cruel tricks that grown-ups liked to pull.

His extensive experience on the subject was gathered partly from neighboring families, partly from rare visits to "Aunt Jane"—who he deeply disliked for no particular reason—and "Uncle George," who had a kind but vacant face, yet still tried to be funny and made pointless attempts to win favor with pocket knives and coins. It was probably these awkward visits that made him realize early on that his own lovely home was, in some unique way, different from other boys' homes, and his mother—in an even more unique way—different from other boys' mothers....

And that proud belief was not just a fantasy from his youthful admiration. In the whole County, maybe even in the entire Kingdom, there was no mother quite like Lilámani Sinclair, a descendant of Rajput chiefs and the wife of an English Baronet, who, despite facing significant challenges, had chosen to embrace all risks and follow her heart's desires. One day, Roy would come to understand that he was the result of a unique romance, of a shared love and bravery that had overcome societal prejudices and personal struggles; yet in the end, it had prevailed like those who refuse to accept defeat. All this initial mix of joy and pain, of spiritual pursuit and achievement, had contributed to who Roy was, and in due time, he would realize—perhaps with pride, perhaps with some hidden anxiety—the high and complicated legacy that belonged to him.

Meanwhile, he only knew that he was incredibly happy, especially in the summer; that his father—who had smiling eyes and loved playing with paints like a kid—was kinder than anyone else's, as long as you didn't tell lies or mess with his brushes; that his idolized mother, in her softly colored silks and saris, her bangles and silver shoes, was the "most beautiful" person in the whole world. And Roy's response to the allure of beauty was exceptionally quick and sharp. It couldn't be any other way for the son of these two. He loved, with a passion beyond his years, the clear pale oval of his mother's face; the coils of her dark hair, always seen through the softest muslin—moon-yellow or apple-blossom pink, or deep dark blue like the night sky outside his window spangled with stars. He loved the sparkle of her jewels, the sheen and feel of her amazing Indian silks, which seemed to smell like the big sandalwood box in the living room. And above all, he loved her smile and the touch of her hand, and her voice that could chase away all nightmares, all questions and rebellions, of his anxious mind.

Yet, on the outside, he wasn't a sentimental boy. The Sinclairs weren’t the sentimental type; and the blood of two strong races—English and Rajput—flowed in his veins. His emerging masculinity urged him to keep the emotions of 'that other Roy' hidden in the deepest part of his heart. Only his mother, and occasionally Tara, caught glimpses of him now and then. Lady Sinclair herself never realized that, in the vivid imaginations of both children, she was the ever-changing embodiment of the fairy princesses and Rajput heroines from her own stories. Their desire for these tales was unquenchable, and her collection seemed endless: folk tales from East and West; true stories of Crusaders, and of Arthur and his knights; of Rajput Kings and Queens, from the distant days when Rajasthán—a name like a battle cry—was defending her desert cities against waves of invaders, and heroes refused to die in their beds. Much of it was frankly beyond their understanding; but the color and the movement, the atmosphere of heroism and high ambition stirred their imaginations and sense of empathy, leaving a lasting impression on both children that wouldn’t fade with time.

To their great luck, these stories and discussions were a part of her straightforward, personal approach to education. An even bigger piece of good luck—in their minds—was her natural reaction to the changing seasons. She completely agreed with their strong belief that classroom lessons and a bright summer day didn’t mix well; so she adjusted her schedule to match.

"Sentimental nonsense and completely demoralizing," was Aunt Jane's verdict, overheard by Roy, who wasn’t supposed to comprehend. "They’ll grow up without an ounce of moral strength. And you can’t say I didn’t warn you. Lady Despard’s a weirdo, for sure; but Nevil is a fool to let it happen. God knows he was bad enough, even though he was raised the right way. And you’re not giving his son a chance. The sooner the kid is sent off to school, the better. I’ll let him know."

And his mother had responded with her calm and graceful sweetness—that set her apart beautifully from ordinary people, who got flustered and made silly faces: "He won’t agree. He believes, like I do, that children are in love with life. It’s their first love. It’s a shame to crush it too soon; restricting their minds in tight boxes with no space for Nature to get in. If they first discover knowledge through their youthful love of life, later on, they might end up sacrificing their love of life to obtain it."

Roy couldn't grasp everything, but the rhythm of the words, combined with his mom's voice, made him feel that she had totally triumphed over the awful Aunt Jane. It was also reassuring to know that his dad agreed about not confining their thoughts. Aunt Jane's harsh rules freaked him out. Sure, school would eventually happen, but he wasn't the type to crave it at such a young age. As for having a moral backbone—whatever that meant—if it meant growing up to be ugly and unpleasant like Aunt Jane or her cousins, he really hoped he wouldn’t have one, nor would Tara...

But on this morning, he wasn’t afraid of anything—neither school nor having a strong moral compass—because the bluebells were blooming under his beech trees—hundreds and hundreds of them—and 'honestly' summer had finally returned!

Roy felt it the moment he jumped out of bed and stood barefoot on the warm spot of carpet by the window, stretching his slim, toned body, instinctively reacting to the sun’s warmth. Just as instinctive was his strong belief that nothing could possibly go wrong on a day like this.

First of all, it meant lessons under their favorite tree. Secondly, it was history and poetry day, and Roy's enthusiasm for both made them hardly feel like lessons at all. He thought it was very clever of his mom to combine them. He didn’t yet realize how wise she really was. She allowed them, within reason, to choose their own poems, and while searching her bookcase, Roy had discovered Shelley's 'Cloud'—the musical flow of words, even more enchanting because he only understood it halfway. He immediately learned the first three verses to surprise her. He sang them softly now, his head tilted back a bit, his eyes focused on a delicate film drifting just above the pine tops—'still as a brooding dove.' ...

Standing there in bright sunlight—the shape of his young body partially covered but not concealed by his silk pajamas; the way he held his head and shoulders showing a natural pride—he appeared to be a fitting heir to the House of Sinclair and its simple, honorable traditions: someone who could possibly confront family biases and doubts. His thick dark hair, tousled from sleep, was inherited from his mother; as was the semi-translucent ivory tone of his skin. The well-defined forehead and nose, along with his blue-grey eyes that held a hint of a smile, were distinctly Nevil Sinclair's. It seemed that, in him, love was validated in her children.

But as for family traits and family issues, he was still blissfully unaware. Grabbing his towel, he rushed barefoot down the hall to the nursery bathroom, where the faucet was already on.

Fifteen minutes later, dressed but without a hat and still barefoot, he was running across the huge, dew-covered lawn, leaving a trail of grey-green smudges on its shiny surface, singing the opening lines of Shelley's 'Cloud' to the birds looking for breakfast.

The blue rug under Roy's beech tree was dotted with patches of sunshine; patches that were always shifting because a restless little wind kept swaying the highest branches, where the youngest beech leaves flickered like golden-green butterflies enchanted by some mischievous fairy, so they could never fly up into the sky until summer was over, and all the leaf butterflies in the world would be free to dance with the wind.

That was Roy's silly daydream as he lay sprawled out, clearly affecting his moral strength—his chin resting in the palms of his hands. Right next to him was Prince, his golden retriever; so close that he could feel the dog's warm body through his lightweight shirt. At the base of the tree, on a pile of soft cushions, sat his mother, dressed in her apple-blossom sari and a silky outfit that resembled the inside of a shell. In the morning light, she wore no jewelry except for the star that held her sari on one shoulder and a thin gold bangle—never taken off—the wedding ring from her homeland. The boy, quietly admiring, could somehow sense the harmony of those soft colors with her olive skin, which had a faint glow, and the delicate curve of her eyebrows that floated like outspread wings above the deep, brown pools of her eyes. He couldn't quite grasp that she was still not much more than a girl; barely twenty-eight. To him, she was timeless: a protector and playmate, the essence of everything that was both real and magical in the home that made up his world. Unbeknownst to him, the Eastern mother within her was already inspiring the Eastern spirit of reverence in her son.

Very close to her was Tara, a lively, eager girl with wild rose-colored cheeks, blue hyacinth eyes, and sunbeams tangled in her hair, which flowed down to her waist in a way that almost overwhelmed her small head and elfin face. In temperament, she resembled a flame more than a flower, this uniquely vibrant child. She loved and hated fiercely, played and fought with an intensity and focus that was surprising and a bit unsettling for someone not yet nine. She drove her nurses to despair and had never had a confrontation with a governess, which was a lucky break—for the governess. She openly dismissed juvenile fiction and fairy tales. Legends of Asgard and Arthur, the powerful stories of Rajputana and its warrior chiefs, she absorbed like the earth drinks in dew. Roy had a secret fondness for a happy ending—in his own words, "a beautiful marry." Tara's rebellious spirit soared to tragedy like a flame reaching for the stars; and there was no shortage of high tragedy in the history of Chitor—Queen of cities—sacked three times by Muslim invaders; ultimately abandoned and left in ruins—a sacred relic of great times long past.

This morning, Rajputana was in control. Lilámani, speaking softly with excitement, was half reading and half recounting the adventures of Prithvi Raj (King of the Earth) and his Amazon Princess, Tara—the Star of Bednore: truly a shining star among women for her beauty, intelligence, and bravery. Many princes wanted to marry her, but she would only call one "lord"—the man who would return her father’s kingdom, taken from him by an Afghan raider. "On my Rajput honor, I will get it back," Prithvi Raj promised. So, on her Rajputni honor, she married him:—and together, through a bold plan, they kept her promise.

Here, for sure, was Roy's 'beautiful marry,' a perfect start for the story of that heroic couple. Because in real life—Lilámani told them—marriage is the beginning, not the end. That's just for fairy tales.

And sitting close against her shoulder, completely absorbed, was the child Tara, with her wildflower face and the flickering star in her heart—a being out of place in an unromantic world; hands clasped around her upraised knees, her wide eyes gazing past the bluebells and the beech leaves at some fanciful inner vision of everything; lost in it, just as Roy was lost in contemplation of his mother's face....

And this unusual way of soaking up knowledge in the very embrace of Mother Earth was Lilámani Sinclair's unrealistic idea of 'teaching lessons'! Shades of Aunt Jane! Of governesses and notebooks and rulers!

Happily for all three, Lady Roscoe never spoiled their paradise in the flesh. She knew that her very unfortunate sister-in-law had 'strange ideas' and had outright refused to hire a highly qualified governess she had chosen herself; but that was only part of the story. It’s never fully explained to those who judge on principle what they can’t understand. When they arrived, all the little private entrances to the delightful Garden of Intimacy closed quietly and decisively. So it was with Jane Roscoe, as worthy and unlikeable a woman as ever managed a household perfectly while pushing away every member of her family.

The problem was that she couldn’t feel satisfied with this achievement. She was consumed by a strong desire—she called it a sense of duty—to organize the homes of her less capable relatives. If they resented it, she labeled them ungrateful. And Nevil’s ingratitude had become a common saying. Because Nevil Sinclair was that puzzling, uncomfortable thing—an artist; in other words, he wasn't a real Sinclair, but rather the son of his mother whose name he carried. No one, not even Jane, had managed to organize him—nor ever would.

So Lilámani continued on, uninterrupted, her small attempt at the forest school of the past. Her simple program included much more than stories of heroism and adventure. That morning, there had been rhythmic exercises, a fun session of 'sums without slates,' and their poems—a big moment for Roy. Only through a superhuman effort had he kept his treasure bottled up inside him for two whole days. His mother's surprise was real: not the fake surprise of adults, which was so obvious and irritating and made them look silly. The smile in her eyes as she listened sent a warm, tingly feeling throughout him, as if spring sunshine itself flowed in his veins. Naturally, he couldn't express it like that; but he felt it deeply. And now, as he lay there looking and listening, he still felt it. The wonder of her face and her voice, along with all the many things that made her beautiful, had always been as much a part of him as the air he breathed. But this morning, in some vague way, things felt different—and he couldn’t figure out why....

His own confused thoughts, along with her face and voice, got mixed up with the noble tale of Prithvi Raj ruling in his hill fortress with Tara—an ideal wife for a hero, as she could ride, throw a spear, and shoot a bow just as well as anyone. When Roy caught up with him, he was in the middle of a fierce battle with his uncle, who had revolted against the old Rana of Chitor.

"All day long they were fighting, and all night long they were lying awake next to huge campfires, waiting for dawn to fight again...."

His mother was telling, not reading now. He knew it immediately from the change in her tone.

"And when evening arrived, what did Prithvi Raj do? He casually strolled over to the enemy's camp, thoughtlessly walking into his Uncle's tent to see if he was okay, despite his many wounds. His uncle, who was quite surprised, replied, 'I'm doing well, my child, since I have the pleasure of seeing you.' When he learned that Prithvi had come before even having dinner, he ordered some food. And there they were, two people who had spent the whole day trying to kill each other, sitting together eating from the same plate."

"'In the morning, we'll finish our fight, Uncle,' Prithvi Raj said when it was time to leave."

"'Alright, kid, come early,' said Surájmul."

"So Prithvi Raj arrived early and sent his uncle's entire army running. But that wasn't enough. He needed to be kicked out of the kingdom. So when Prithvi learned that the defeated army was hiding deep in a vast forest, he charged in with his bravest horsemen and suddenly, on a dark night, sprang into their midst. Then there was a lot of shouting and fighting; soon, they faced off, uncle and nephew, battling each other, yet never filled with hatred, even though they had to fight for Chitor and the Kingdom of Mewar."

"Suráj wouldn’t back down to anyone except for Prithvi, the bravest of the brave. Suddenly, he shouted loudly, 'Stop the fight, nephew. If I’m killed, it’s not a big deal. But if you’re killed, what will happen to Chitor? I’d be ashamed forever.'"

"With those kind words, he turned submission into something even greater than victory. Uncle and nephew hugged, truly heartfelt, and everyone who had been in conflict sat together in peace, because Surájmul, a true Rajput, wouldn’t do any harm, even in anger, to the sacred city of Chitor."

She paused—her eyes on Roy, who had been swept away by the chaos of the fight and its noble climax.

"Oh, I love it," he said. "Is that it?"

"No, there's more."

"Is it depressing?"

She smiled and shook her head at him.

"Yeah, Roy. It's sad."

He frowned.

"Oh no! I prefer it to end happily."

"But I'm not making up stories, Sonling. I'm sharing history."

Tara's head nudged her shoulder. "Go on—please," she whispered, annoyed by the interruptions.

So Lilámani—still looking at Roy—explained how Prithvi Raj went on his final journey to Mount Abu, to confront the chief who had married his sister and was mistreating her.

"In response to her call, he went; and climbing the walls of her palace at night, he dealt harsh punishment to that undeserving prince. But once the penance was complete, his noble heart was ready to embrace and make amends, just like before. Only that worthless one, unable to defeat him in battle, poisoned the sweets he gave at parting, and Prithvi ate them, thinking there was no danger. So, when he reached the hill near his palace, the wicked deed was done. Helpless, the all-conqueror sent a message to Tara, asking to see her before he died. But that was not possible. And she, his devoted wife, had only one thought in her heart: 'Can the blossom survive when the tree is cut down?' Calm and tearless, she urged his grieving warriors to build the funeral pyre, lighting the torch herself. Then, before everyone, she climbed onto that bed of fire and walked through the blazing flames to join her lord——"

The soft, clear voice went quiet—and the silence lingered. The faint feeling of a tragedy they barely understood cast a spell over the kids. It made Roy feel like he did in church, when the deep notes of the organ resonated through him; and it caused a lump in his throat that he had to bravely swallow because he was a boy....

And suddenly, the spell was broken by the voice of Roger the footman, who had quietly approached along the mossy path.

"If you don’t mind, my lady, Sir Nevil sent word that Lord and Lady Roscoe have arrived unexpectedly; and if it’s convenient for you, can you come in?"

They all jumped visibly, and their dream world of desert and rose-red mountains, battlefields, and leaping flames shattered like a soap bubble at the touch of a careless hand.

Lilámani stood up, graceful and composed. "Thanks, Roger. Let Sir Nevil know I'm on my way."

Roy held back a groan. Just hearing Aunt Jane's name made you feel a bit guilty. In his quick imagination, it felt like she had actually barged into their space, dressed in her tidy, stiff coat and skirt, wearing her structured summer hat with its single sharp wing that, ignoring the softness of curves, seemed to cut through the air, much like how her eyes often pierced Roy's overly sensitive mind.

"Oh no!" he sighed. "Are they going to take a lunch break?"

"I think so."

He scrunched up his nose in a wicked grimace.

"Bad boy!" Lilámani's lips said, but her eyes conveyed a different message. He knew, and she knew that he knew how deep down, she shared his natural hostility. Was it not something she had inherited—a legacy of certain memories—indelible, unforgivable—from her early married life? Yet, despite this mutual understanding, Roy was never allowed to speak disrespectfully about his intimidating aunt.

"You can stay out and play until 12:30, not a minute later," she said—and left them to their own enjoyable activities.

Roy had received a silver watch for his eighth birthday, proving that he was dependable; and he still felt a personal sense of pride whenever others acknowledged it.

Left alone, they just needed to continue their game; an endless ongoing story, where they lived and moved and found their purpose. But first, Tara—herself—had some news to share. Curling up her knees, she leaned her head back until it touched the smooth grey hole of the tree, and all her hair cascaded against it like a stream of soft sunlight.

"What do you think?" she smiled at Roy with her cute grin. "We've got a boy visiting with his mom, from India. They arrived last night. He's quite a big kid."

"Is he nine?" Roy asked, standing up tall and slim, a defensive look in his eye.

"He's ten and a half. And he looks bigger than that. He goes to school. And he's spent quite a bit of time in India."

"Not my India."

"I don't know. He called it 'Mballa.' That letter I brought from Mom was asking if she could come over for tea."

"Well, I don't want him for tea. I don't like your boy who's visiting. I'll tell Mom."

"Oh, Roy—you can't." She gave him a disapproving look. "Because then I wouldn't be able to come. And he's actually pretty nice—just a bit awkward. And you can't dislike someone you’ve never met."

"I can, I often do." The thought had just crossed his mind. He viewed it as a unique opportunity and took full advantage of it. "Of course, if you’re going to complain——"

Tara's eyes opened even wider. "Oh, Roy, you are——! It's not me that's making a fuss."

Though Roy knew nothing yet about women and the final word, he instinctively sought comfort in the masculine dignity that rejects entering the dusty arena when it senses defeat approaching.

"Girls never fuss—do they?" he asked smoothly. "Let's get on with the game and not worry about your boyfriend."

"And a half," Tara insisted bluntly, with her sweetest smile. But when Roy decided to stay indifferent, her sharp comments had no effect on him.

"Where did we leave off?" he wondered, disregarding her comment. "Oh—I remember. The Knight was setting off to find the Elephant with golden tusks for the High Tower Princess who wanted them for her crown. Why do Princesses always want what the knights can't find?"

Tara's intuition kicked in with a solution.

"I guess it's just to show off that they're Princesses and to keep the Knights from bothering them. So off he went and the Princess climbed up to her highest tower and waved her lily-white hand——"

In the same moment, Tara jumped up and swung herself onto a branch that was sweeping down just above Roy's head. She sat there like a delicate blue flower, letting her tan-stockinged legs dangle and shaking her hair at him like golden rain. She was feeling playful; it was probably a reaction—though she didn’t realize it—from the intense drama of that other Tara, her namesake, and the beloved great-great-grandmother of her adored 'Aunt Lila.' Suddenly, a new impulse took over her. Grabbing the branch, she leaned down and playfully messed up his hair.

He flinched and looked upset. "Don't mess with me. I'm leaving."

"You don't have to if you don't want to," she said softly. "I'm going all the way to the top to look out over the world. And the Princess doesn't care at all about the Golden Tusks—really."

"She's really happy with the knight who finds them," said Roy with a deeper understanding than he realized. "And you can't be held back from quests like that. Come on, Prince."

At a curve in the grassy path, he glanced back and she waved her delicate hand.

To be alone in the woods during bluebell season was, for Roy, a feeling all its own. In an instant, you stepped through an invisible door straight into a fairy-tale land—or was it a world from a reflection? Because here the sky spread out beneath you in a shimmer of bluebells: and high above were domes of cool green light, where the sun flickered and filtered through millions of leaves. Always, as far back as he could remember, that magical feeling had been there. But this morning it hit him in a strange way. This morning—though he couldn't quite figure it out—there was the Roy who felt it and the Roy who knew he felt it, just as there had suddenly been when he was watching his mother's face. And this magical world was his kingdom. At some distant time, it would all be his very own. That uplifting thought overshadowed everything else....

Lost in one of his daydreams, he kept walking, with Prince following him. He forgot all about Tara, his knighthood, and his quest; until suddenly—where the trees opened up—his attention was caught by two beams of sunlight shining down through the green darkness.

He caught his breath and stood still. "I've found them! The Golden Tusks!" he whispered excitedly.

The sad part was he couldn't bring them back as trophies. He could only watch them, fascinated, wondering how to explain what he didn’t understand himself. All he knew was that they made him feel 'dazzled inside,' and he wanted to keep watching them.

It was gorgeous outside with the sun shining and a big lazy white cloud caught in the treetops. So he threw himself on the moss, hands under his head, and lay there, Prince beside him, looking up into the deep blue sky, listening to the swish and rustle of the wind sharing secrets with the leaves, and all the little mysterious sounds that create the silence of a forest in summer.

And once more, he lost track of Tara, the Game, and the silver watch that made him dependable. He just lay there in a trance-like stillness that felt foreign, taking it all in with his eyes, his amazed mind, and every nerve in his body. And again—just like when his mother smiled in approval—the Spring sunshine seemed to flow through his veins....

Suddenly, he became alert and sat up. Something was happening. The Golden Tusks had vanished, along with the domes of cool green light, the far blue sky, and the lazy white clouds. Under the beeches, it felt almost like twilight—a strange twilight, as if a giant had snuffed out the sun. Was it really evening? Had he been sleeping? Only his watch could clear that up, and he had never cherished it more. No—it was daytime. Twenty past twelve—and he was going to be late——

A deep rumbling growl shook the woods, startling him and making his body feel like it was buzzing with little hammers. The wind picked up—no longer just whispering secrets, but violently ripping through the treetops and whipping the branches around. With each passing moment, the woods got darker, and the sky above was the deepest shade of black—like spilled ink. And there was Tara—his long-lost Princess—waiting for him in her tall tower; or maybe she had stopped waiting and went back home.

"Come on, Prince," he said, "we need to hurry!"

The sound of his own voice was somewhat reassuring: but the moment he started to run, he felt like someone—or Something—was chasing him. He knew there was nothing there. He knew it was childish. But what could he do if his legs were in a terrified rush on their own? Besides, Tara was waiting. Somehow Tara felt like the safe spot. He didn't think she ever got scared—

All of a sudden, the eerie darkness shook and burst into bright light. Twigs, leaves, bluebell spears, and tiny patches of moss seemed to jump out at him and disappear as he ran. Just two minutes later, high above the restless treetops, the thunder roared. It was no longer just a growl; it was a series of crashes that seemed to rip the sky apart and made his heart race faster than ever.

He had often watched storms from a window, but being out in the middle of one all alone was an incredible adventure. The awe and fear of it gripped his heart and rushed through his nerves as the thunder rolled away to the other side of the world, leaving the woods so quiet and still that the little sounds inside felt almost as loud as the plop-plop of the first big raindrops hitting the leaves. But, despite his secret nervousness, he really wanted to hear the thunder roar again. The childish urge to run away was gone. His legs, which had been moving in a panicked hurry, suddenly stopped, and he realized, to his great surprise, that he was back again——

There was the rug and the cushions beneath the downward-swooping branches with their flowing, bright new leaves. No sign of Tara—and the heavy drops fell faster, even though they hardly added up to a shower.

Flinging down his bow and arrows, he ran under the tree and looked up into a mix of silver-gray and fresh green. Still no sign.

"Tara!" he shouted. "Are you there?"

"'Of course I am." Her voice, echoing from nowhere, sounded triumphant. "I'm at the very top. It's a little unsteady, but amazing. Come up—hurry!"

Craning his neck, he could just see one leg and the edge of her dress. Temptation pulled at him, but he couldn't bring himself to disobey his mother—not because it was wrong, but because it was her.

"I can't—right now," he shouted back. "It's late and it's raining. You have to come down."

"I will—if you show up."

"I swear, I can't!"

"Just one more minute, Roy. The storm is passing. I can see for miles and miles—to Farthest End."

Temptation pulled stronger. You couldn't argue with one tan shoe and a stocking and a flash of a blue dress, and he really wanted to talk about the Golden Tusks. Should he continue on his own, or should he go back and get her——?

The answer to that came from the top of the tree. A crack, a rustle, and a shriek from Tara, who seemed to be coming down faster than she wanted to.

Another shriek. "Oh, Roy! I'm stuck! Please hurry!"

Stuck! She was hanging from the end of a jagged branch that had snagged her skirt as she fell. There she hung awkwardly—his High Tower Princess—her hair floating like seaweed, her hands gripping the nearest branches that were too flexible to provide any real support. If her skirt ripped, or the branch broke——

"Stay stuck!" he ordered unnecessarily; and like a squirrel he raced up the huge beech tree, each foothold as familiar to him as the ground he walked on.

But to free her skirt and help her out, he had to trust himself on the jagged branch, hoping it would support both of their weights. It seemed pretty dead, and its sharp end was poking through a hole in Tara's dress. He stepped onto it carefully and offered his hand.

"Now—grab on!" he said.

Agile as he was, she managed to swing herself up and grabbed onto him with both hands. The nearly-dead branch, disapproving of these acrobatics, cracked threateningly. There was a gasp and a scuffle. Roy held on bravely, pulling her closer for a better grip.

And suddenly down below, Prince started to bark—a deep, booming sound of welcome.

"Helloo, Roy!" It was his father's voice. "Are you killing Tara up there? Come out of it!"

Roy, having lost his balance, was in no position to look down—or to disobey: and they managed to get out of it, with a bit more urgency than grace.

Roy, swinging from a high branch for his final jump—a total show-off move because he was feeling anxious inside—realized, with a mix of fear and excitement, that his wandering foot had just barely missed Aunt Jane's tidy summer hat: Aunt Jane—of all people—at that moment, when he couldn't really explain. He sort of wished he had kicked that fierce little feather and broken its back——

He was on the ground now, shaking hands with her, his sharp, clean-cut face showing only politeness; and Tara was standing next to him—a tear in her blue dress, a scratch on her cheek, and her hair ribbon missing—looking suspiciously as if he had been trying to hurt her instead of helping her like a knight.

She couldn't help it, of course. But still—it was a clear win for Aunt Jane, who, as usual, got right to the point.

"You almost kicked my head just now. A polite person would apologize."

He did apologize—not in the most gracious way.

"My turn next," his father interrupted. "What on earth were you doing—hacking pieces out of my best tree?" His twinkly eyes were nearly serious and his voice was almost stern. ("Just because of Aunt Jane!" thought Roy.)

Aloud he said: "I'm really sorry, Dad. It was just ... Tara got mixed up. I had to help her."

The sparkle returned to his father's eyes.

"The woman tempted me!" was all he said; and Roy, completely confused, wondered how he could possibly know. It was really clever of him. But Aunt Jane looked shocked.

"Nevil, be quiet!" she commanded in a sharp whisper; and Roy, filled with hatred for her, pulled out his watch.

"We need to hurry, Dad. Mom said 'no later than half-past.' And it’s already later."

"Scoot, then. She'll be worried because of the storm."

But even though Roy held Tara's hand and rushed ahead for his mother’s sake, he stayed close enough to listen in. He didn’t feel guilty about eavesdropping, especially because of Aunt Jane. You couldn’t trust her. She didn’t play by the rules. She would stab you in the back. That’s the kind of person she was.

And this is what he heard.

"Nevil, this is completely unacceptable. Letting them run around like that; damaging the trees and frightening the birds."

She was talking about the pheasants, of course. No other flying creatures were sacred to her.

"Sorry, old girl. But they seem to be handling it." (The relaxed and cheerful tone of his dad brought comfort to Roy's heart.) "And honestly, when it comes to us, if it's a choice between the kids or the birds, the kids always come first."

Aunt Jane snorted. You couldn’t call it anything else. It was a sound uniquely hers, and it suggested deep thoughts. Roy would have felt triumphant if he had realized what a win for his dad it was that subtly hinted at his connection with his wife.

But the snort wasn’t an admission of defeat.

"In my opinion—if it means anything," she continued, "this chaotic situation is just as harmful for the kids as it is for the birds. I guess you do have some concern for the boy's future, being the heir to the old estate?"

Nevil Sinclair laughed.

"Wow! That's a really great idea. Honestly, Jane, you have a knack for the obvious."

(Roy really wanted to know what a "flair for the obvious" could be. His eager mind jumped on new words like a dog jumps on a bone.)

"I wish I could say the same for you," Lady Roscoe shot back without shame. "The obvious thing here—though you can't or won't see it—is that the boy is completely spoiled, and in September he should be going to school. You really couldn't do better than Coombe Friars."

His father said something quietly, and he couldn't catch Aunt Jane's next comment. Clearly, he wasn't meant to hear any more. What he had heard was bad enough.

"I don't care. I definitely won't," he said through clenched teeth—which suggested that Aunt Jane might not have been entirely wrong about the spoiling.

"No, don't," Tara said, having listened without any shame herself. And they hurried on seriously.

"Tara," Roy whispered, suddenly remembering his mission. "I found the Golden Tusks. I'll tell you about it later."

"Oh, Roy, you're amazing!" She squeezed his hand tightly and they took off running.

The "bits of blue" had spread across half the sky. The thunder still rumbled to itself occasionally, and a quick little shower shot out from a passing cloud. Then the sun broke through, and the shadows moved around the large twin beeches on the lawn—and the day was beautiful once more.

And yet—for Roy, it wasn't the same beauty. Aunt Jane's constant threat of school hung over his sensitive spirit, like the thundercloud in the woods that looked like spilled ink. And the Boy-of-ten—a possible rival—was coming to tea....

Yet this morning he felt so confidently that nothing could go wrong on a day like this! It was his first lesson, and definitely not his last, that Fate—unaffected by 'light of smiles or tears'—doesn’t care about deep beliefs or beautiful days.

Tara was right. The Boy-of-ten (Roy constantly ignored the half) was quite a big kid: also somewhat clumsy. He had small eyes and freckles, and what Christine referred to as a "turnip nose." He wore a brand new school blazer and real cricket pants, along with a flannel shirt and school tie that made Roy's tussore shirt and soft brown bow look almost feminine. Something about his attitude and the way he tossed around his school slang made Roy—who never felt confident around strangers—feel "light years younger," which didn’t help him relax.

His name was Joe Bradley. He had lived in India until he was almost eight, and he spoke about India, just like he talked about school, in a somewhat serious tone, as the only person around who knew anything about either.

Roy was pretty sure he didn’t know anything about Rajputana or Chitor or Prithvi Raj or the sacred peacocks of Jaipur. But for some reason, he just couldn’t bring himself to talk about these things just to "show off," especially since a rude boy was acting all superior.

Besides, he never really wanted to talk while he was eating, though he couldn't have said why. So he focused mostly on a plate of chocolate cakes, leaving the Boy-of-ten in charge of the conversation.

He was really into a recent cricket match, and his conversation was filled with unfamiliar terms like "square leg," "cover point," and "caught out." But for some reason—maybe just being contrary—they didn't spark any curiosity in Roy , unlike his dad’s "flair for the obvious." He didn't know what they meant—and he didn’t care, which was totally not like Roy. Tara, who had older brothers, seemed to know all about it, or at least looked like she did; and admitting you didn’t understand something a girl did would have been the ultimate embarrassment.

When the cricket show-off was over, Joe chatted with India and teased Tara in a big-brotherly way, completely ignoring Christine, as if she didn't even matter. That caught Roy's attention; and as a silent way of rebuking Joe, he gave so much focus to his little sister that Christine (who looked up to him and was feeling really shy) shone like a dewdrop when the sun comes out.

She was a small being, perfectly shaped; fair like her father, but essentially a copy of her mother, with the same wing-like eyebrows and dark, expressive eyes. Slightly envious of Tara, she was the only one of the three who enjoyed having the intruder around and hoped that strange boys would come over for tea more often.

Millicent, the nursery maid, was in charge. She was tall and smiling, clearly a lady. She observed and listened, saying little throughout the meal.

Once, during that time, Lilámani came in and floated around them, topping off Roy's tea cup and slathering Christine's honey—extra thick. Her innate desire to serve, her happiness in caring for those she loved, had endured ten years of marriage in England, and would last at least another ten. It was as much a fundamental part of her as the rhythm of her pulse and the blood in her veins.

She was no longer the fresh, delicate vision of the morning. She wore her mother-of-pearl sari with its slim gold border. Her dress, the color of a dove's wing, shimmered in different shades as she moved, and her aquamarine pendant sparkled like drops of seawater on its silver chain.

Roy loved her most when she was in her mother-of-pearl mood, and he felt a surge of pride as he noticed how the important Boy-from-India seemed so focused on watching her that he didn't even try to show off. She didn't stay for long and said very little. She preferred to be quiet during meals, and it thrilled her to see that her own culture's habits were emerging as instinct in Roy. So, with just a few words, she smiled at them, handed out treats, and patted their heads. When she left, Roy felt uplifted. Everything felt balanced again. What was a school blazer and twenty runs in cricket compared to the honor of having a mother like that?

But if tea wasn't very enjoyable, after tea was even worse.

They were told to run and play in the garden, and they obediently ran out, dog and all. But what could you do for fun with someone who had scored twenty runs without getting out in a House Match—whatever that was? They showed him their ring-doves and rabbits, but he didn’t even pretend to be interested, although Tara tried her best, because it was she who had brought this situation upon Roy.

"How about the summer house?" she suggested, hopefully. The summer house storage had a collection of old tennis rackets, mallets, and balls that might be more fun than rabbits and doves. Roy didn't object, so they wandered across a corner of the lawn to a narrower area behind the tall yew hedge.

The adults were gathered under the twin beeches, and at the far end of the lawn, Roy's mom and Tara's mom were walking back and forth in the sun.

Again, Roy noticed how Joe Bradley was staring, and as they turned the corner by the hedge, he suddenly said, "Hey! There's that stylish ayah of yours walking with Lady Despard. She's really smart, for an ayah. Did you bring her back from India? You never mentioned you had been there."

Roy started and felt his face heat up. "Well, I have—just on a visit. And she's not a maid. She's my Mom!"

Joe Bradley opened his mouth and his eyes, which made him look even more ordinary.

"Golly! What a story! White people don't have ayahs for mothers—not in my India. I guess your dad married her out there?"

"He didn't. And I'm telling you she's not a maid."

Roy's quiet voice shook with anger, as if ten thousand tiny flames had ignited inside him. But you had to be polite to guests, so he added with a strong effort: "She's really and truly a Princess—so there!"

But that unbelievable boy, instead of being impressed, laughed in the rudest way.

"Don't get worked up, you silly kid. I'm not as naive as you are. Besides—who cares—?"

It hit Roy, through the haze of his confused anger, that maybe the Boy-from-India was feeling jealous. He attempted to say something. A feeling gripped his throat, but his instinct told him he had a pair of hands....

To the complete surprise of Tara and the enemy, he quietly lunged at the bigger boy; seized him awkwardly by the knot of his fancy tie and swung wildly, with more anger than accuracy, at his cheeks, eyes, and nose——

For a few thrilling seconds, it was all going his way. Then the enemy—having recovered from the initial shock—started angrily retaliating. He had the advantage of strength. He tried to push Roy backward; when that didn’t work, he began to kick viciously wherever he could reach. It hurt quite a bit and only made Roy angrier. In a furious rage, he shook and hit back, ignoring the choking sounds and fingers grabbing at his hair....

Tara, feeling a mix of excitement and fear, could only grab Prince's collar to stop him from jumping into the fight; and when Joe started kicking, it was a struggle to hold on. But she remembered Athol—her beloved brother—would say it wasn't fair play. So she pulled, and Prince pulled back; while the boys, fiercely quiet, swayed back and forth; and Christine cried out in despair—"He's hurting Roy—he's killing Roy!"

Tara, completely focused on Prince, could only blurt out: "Don't be a baby, Chris. Roy's fine. He loves it." Christine just didn't buy it. There was blood on his tussore shirt. It might not be his, but still——

It even made Tara feel kind of nauseous; and when a young gardener showed up, she shouted: "Oh, Mudford, please stop them—or something's going to happen."

But Mudford—British to the core—would do nothing of the sort. He instantly recognized that Roy was outmatching an opponent who was nearly twice his weight; and putting down his barrow, he openly applauded his young master.

By now, the enemy had blood streaming from his nose, ruining the brand-new blazer. He gasped and sputtered, "Drop it, you little brat!" But Roy, encouraged by Mudford's cheers, just hit out even harder.

"'Apologize—'apologize! Say she isn't!"

His sudden lurch on the words caught Joe by surprise. The edge of the lawn tripped him up, and they tumbled onto the grass, with Joe underneath in a tight embrace——

And at that crucial moment, a group of adults casually walked around the corner of the hedge—Sir Nevil Sinclair with Mrs. Bradley, Lady Roscoe, Lady Despard, and Roy's godfather, the famous novelist, Cuthbert Broome.

Mudford and his cart left, and Tara looked hopefully at her mother.

Roy—focused on the defeated enemy—suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder and heard his father's voice say firmly: "Get up, Roy, and explain yourself!"

They both got up and stood there, looking shy and dazed, really worse for wear: hair messy, faces discolored, shirts torn open. One of Roy's socks was slipping down, and amid his jumbled feelings, he heard Mrs. Bradley's excited voice demanding to know what her "poor dear boy" could have done to deserve such treatment.

No one seemed to respond to her; and the poor kid was too busy soothing his nose to pay much attention to what was happening.

Lady Despard (you could tell right away she was Tara's mother) was on her knees comforting Christine; and as Roy's senses returned, he felt a surge of relief seeing that his mother wasn't there. But Aunt Jane was—and Uncle Cuthbert—

He stood there, panting and aching in an endless silence, surrounded by staring eyes. He didn’t realize that his father was giving him a moment to pull himself together.

Then: "What do you mean by that, Roy?" he asked; and this time his voice was genuinely stern. It hurt more than the bruises. "Gentlemen don't hit their guests." This was a surprising blow. And it wasn't fair. How could he explain himself in front of "all those"? His cheeks were burning, his head was throbbing; and tears, which he could not let fall, were pricking like needles under his eyelids.

It was Tara who spoke—still holding onto Prince, to keep him from overwhelming Roy and ruining his barely kept dignity.

"Joe really made him angry—he did," she interjected with a touch of feminine authority, only to be stopped by her mother's warning finger.

Mrs. Bradley—tall and thin with a sharp nose—loomed over her beaten-down son, who sulkily shifted away from her offered affection.

Sir Nevil, not daring to meet the amused gaze of Cuthbert Broome, continued to reflect on the messy dignity of his own little son—partly confused, partly frustrated.

"You've messed up now, Roy. Just say you're sorry," he urged; his voice a bit less harsh than he meant it to be.

Roy shook his head.

"It's him to say, not me."

"Did he start it?"

"Nope."

"Of course he didn’t," the injured mother shot back. "He’s been raised right," which wasn’t exactly polite, but she was at her breaking point—just an angry mother, all feathers ruffled. "You deserve to be punished. You’ve really hurt him."

"Oh, stop it, Mom," Joe murmured behind his bloody handkerchief, moving even further away from his mom's worrying and any potential lecturing.

Nevil Sinclair realized that his son would neither apologize nor explain. Deep down, he suspected young Bradley, mostly because of his unbearable mother, but the rules of hospitality needed to be honored.

"Go to your room, Roy," he said firmly, "and stay there until I come."

Roy gave him a look—silently judging. Then—to everyone's surprise and Tara's delight—he walked right up to the Enemy.

"I hammered hardest. Apologies!"

The older boy mumbled something that sounded a lot like the deadly word: a suspicion confirmed by Roy's next remark: "I'm sorry your blazer's ruined. But you pushed me."

And the elders, watching with amused approval, had no idea that the words were spoken not by Roy Sinclair but by Prithvi Raj.

The Enemy, humbled twice, said nothing; and Roy—his dignity unaffected by trivial things like a bruise on his cheek, a messy tie, and one sock lovingly wrapped around his ankle—strolled away casually, without ever looking at the "grown-ups," who had no involvement at all in this—the most important event of his life—

Tara—caught between anger and admiration—watched him walk away. In her eyes, he was a hero, a victim of unfairness and the complexities of adulthood.

She quickly let go of Prince, who ran after his owner. She wanted to go too. It was all her fault for inviting that awful boy to tea. She hoped Roy would explain things clearly. But boys were dumb sometimes, and she wanted to be sure. While her mother was subtly suggesting it was time to head home, she slipped her small hand into Sir Nevil's.

"Uncle Nevil, please believe," she whispered urgently. "It really isn't fair——"

His quick frown signaled her to stop talking; but the pressure of his hand reassured her a bit.

All the same, she hated going home. She hated "that disgusting boy"—a word she shouldn't use; but what else could you call him? She was glad he would be gone the day after tomorrow. She was even more glad that his nose was bleeding, his eye was bruised, and his fancy blazer was all messed up with blood. Even though she was a girl, she had a fiercer side than Roy.

As they walked away, she had a sudden idea. It was just in her nature.

"Mummy darling," she said in her sweet, clear voice, "can I stay back a bit and play with Chris? She's really unhappy. Alice could come get me—couldn't she? Please."

The innocent request was emphasized by a clear look through her lashes at Joe. She wanted him to hear; and she didn’t care if he got it—him and his nosy mom! Obviously, her own Mom understood. She was biting her lips, trying not to smile.

"Alright, dear," she said. "I'll send Alice at 6:30. Go ahead."

Tara gave her hand a thankful little squeeze—and took off running.

She would have hated the "beaky mother" even more if she had heard her comment to Lady Despard when they were alone.

"Honestly, a very stubborn, uncontrollable kid. His mother, of course—she's quite attractive—but what can you expect? Natives always mess up boys."

Lady Despard—Lilámani Sinclair's first supporter and friend—could be relied upon to handle a comment like that effectively.

As for Tara—once "the creatures" were out of sight, they were gone for good. All the maternal instincts in her were focused on Roy. It felt wrong to send him to his room like a naughty kid when he was really a champion, a Knight of King Arthur. But if only he could explain things properly, Uncle Nevil would definitely understand——

And suddenly there was a dilemma. How could Roy bring himself to repeat the rude comments of that awful kid to Uncle Nevil? And if he didn't—how was he going to explain it properly——?

That problem was really bothering Roy as he lay on his bed, with Prince's head resting on his shoulder, feeling a lot of pain but also excited about his newly granted knighthood, wondering how long he would be treated like he had done something wrong—and through it all, he just missed his mom...

It was his awareness of his need for her understanding, her approval, that made him realize his problem.

He had supported her with all his strength against that awkward ten-year-old who kicked in the nastiest way; and he couldn't explain why, so she could never know. The memory of those hurtful words pained him so much that he recoiled at the thought of repeating them to anyone—especially not to her. Yet how could he see her, feel her, and not share everything? She would definitely ask—she would want to know—and then—when he tried to think beyond that he felt completely lost.

It was a deadlock that felt tragic, even though he was only nine. Telling her every little detail was as essential as eating or sleeping; and—until this confusing moment—it had been completely normal. For Lilámani Sinclair, with her Eastern mother's intuition, had created a bond between herself and her first-born that was woven from the gentlest, most delicate threads of heart and spirit; a bond so essential, yet so understated, that it seemed likely to endure the challenges of absence and the passage of time. Such a close connection to another person, while it brings beauty, also brings pain and confusion—as Roy was just beginning to realize with disappointment.

At the sound of footsteps, he sat up, suddenly very aware of how unheroic he looked. He pulled at the fallen stocking and quickly tried to fix his hair. But it was just Esther, the housemaid, with an envelope on a tray. Envelopes, however, were always mysterious and exciting.

His name was scrawled on this one in Tara's handwriting; and as Esther stepped back, he opened it, wondering...

It had a half-sheet of note paper inside, and tucked between the folds was a circle of narrow blue ribbon braided in three strands. But only two of the strands were ribbon; the third was a lock of her shiny hair. Roy stared at it for a moment, captivated and still curious; then he looked at Tara's letter—not scrawled, but written with careful neatness and precision.

Roy sat looking from the letter to the bangle with a distinctly pleasant feeling swirling inside him. He was so surprised, so comforted, and so excited by this tribute from his High Tower Princess, who had high expectations when it came to heroes. Now—besides being a Knight and a champion, he was also Bracelet-Bound Brother.

Only the other day, his mom told them a story about an old tradition of sending bracelets in Rajputana: how, on a certain holy day, any woman—married or single—can send her bracelet token to any man. If he accepts it and sends back an embroidered bodice, he becomes her bracelet brother from that moment on, committed to serving her, like a Christian knight during the days of chivalry. The bracelet can be made of gold, jewels, or even silk woven with sequins—like Tara’s spontaneous token. The two who are bound by this bracelet might never meet in person. Still, she who sends it can request any service from him who accepts it, and he cannot refuse—even if it puts his life at risk.

The old tradition, she told them, still matters, even though it's become less common, like everything noble, in a time overwhelmed by industrial conflict; a time that has become unseeing to the beauty of service, which, despite "progress," still defines an Indian woman's life.

So these privileged kids had heard a lot about it through Lilámani's Indian stories; and this particular one had affected Tara more than Roy, maybe because the emerging woman in her enjoyed the power of choice and authority it gave to her gender. Certainly, Roy wasn't thinking about any potential future authority. It was her pride in his accomplishment, so typically expressed, that flattered his growing masculine vanity and made him feel taller. He now knew what he wanted to be when he grew up. Not a painter, a soldier, or a gardener—but a Bracelet-Bound Brother....

Gingerly, almost shyly, he slipped the skillfully woven ribbon and shiny hair over his hand. As the first rush of pleasure faded, an instinctive thought popped into his head—"Won't Mom be happy!" And right away, he was caught up again in the struggle of his dilemma—How could he possibly explain——?

What was she doing? Why didn't she come——?

There——! He heard distant footsteps—too heavy to be hers. He took off the Bracelet, folded it in Tara's letter, and tucked it away inside his shirt.

Hurriedly—a little nervously—he tied his brown bowtie and got to his feet, just as the door opened and his dad walked in.

"Well, Roy!" he said, and for a few seconds he looked at his small son with eyes that tried really hard to be serious and fair. Scolding and showing authority weren't really his style, and the pull at his heartstrings was particularly strong with Roy. Even though he was fair and the boy was dark, their obvious similarities in shape and features were so striking that there were moments—like now—when it gave Nevil Sinclair a strange feeling of looking into his own eyes—which was uncomfortable, since he had prepared himself to discipline the boy if necessary, though every part of him resisted the idea of doing something so demeaning. He had only once punished Roy for openly defying him during one of his angry outbursts; and at that moment, he didn't see a humble penitent in front of him.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" he continued, hoping the pause had made an impact; he strongly suspected it hadn’t. "Guys, as I mentioned, don’t hit their guests. It was quite a bad beating, judging by his handkerchief. And you don’t seem particularly sorry about it either."

"I'm really not at all."

This was unsettling; but Nevil stood his ground.

"Then I guess I have to hit you. If boys aren't sorry for what they've done wrong, that's the only way."

Roy's eyelids fluttered a bit.

"You better not," he said with the same detached confidence. "You know, it wouldn't make me feel sorry. And you're not hurt that badly. Not nearly as much as Joe was. He was cruel. He kicked. I wouldn't have stopped, anyway—if you hadn't shown up."

The tone of disappointment was more unsettling than ever.

"Well, if hitting you doesn't work, what am I supposed to do with you? Keep you locked up here until bedtime—right?"

Roy thought about that gloomy idea while watching the summer world outside.

"Well—you can if you want. But that wouldn’t be fair." A pause. "You don’t know what a terrible boy he was, Dad. You'd have hit him harder—even if he was a guest."

"I wonder!" Nevil admitted, fatalistically. "Of course, it would all depend on what prompted it."

What's "provocation"?

The sudden excitement over a new word brought the smile back to Nevil's eyes.

"It means saying or doing something so bad that it makes it okay for you to be angry."

"Well, it was pretty bad. It was"—a significant pause—"about Mom."

"About Mom?" The sudden shift in his father's tone was both surprising and reassuring. "Listen, Roy. No more secrets. This is just as much my business as it is yours. Come here."

Pulling a chair from beside the bed to the window, he sat down and pulled Roy close, gripping his shoulders with both hands.

"Alright, man, just tell me exactly what happened—as two guys talking."

The appeal was impossible to resist. But—how could he——? The shift in his father's demeanor made sharing it both harder and more pressing.

"Dad—it hurts too much. I don't know how to say it——" he hesitated, and the blood rushed to his cheeks.

If Nevil Sinclair wasn't a strict father, he also wasn’t very affectionate. Even his closest relationships had a touch of the artist's distance, along with a natural respect for personal identity, even in its early stages. But when he saw Roy's pain and sensitivity, his heart softened. Without saying anything, he wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulders and pulled him in closer.

"Is that better? You've got to get through this somehow," he said softly, holding him in a way that made it possible for Roy to lean against him if he wanted to. He did want to. It might seem childish, but he hated speaking out; it was a little easier with his face hidden. So, in fragmented sentences and a quiet voice that shook with resurfaced anger — he spoke.

While he was talking, his father didn’t say a word; and when he finished, he still didn’t say anything. He seemed to be staring out of the window, and Roy felt him take a deep breath.

"Do you have to hit me—now, Dad?" he asked, still in his little voice.

His dad grabbed his arm. "No. You were right, Roy," he said. "I would have hit harder. Rude little brat! Still——"

A pause. He, just like Roy, found it hard to speak. He had thought he was used to this kind of shock—so common in the early years of his boldly unconventional marriage. It seemed he was wrong. He had felt vaguely unsettled all afternoon. What young Joe had bluntly said, Mrs. Bradley's attitude had silently communicated. He had managed to suppress his own feelings, only to face the impact it all had on Roy—who somehow needed to understand.

"The truth is, old man," he continued, trying to speak in his normal voice, "young Bradley and a good number of his peers spend years in India without really getting to know the local people. You'll understand why once you're older. They all have Indian servants, and they see Indians working in shops and villages, just like a lot of our people do here. But they rarely meet many of the other type—like Mom, Grandpa, and Uncle Rama—except sometimes in England. And then—they make dumb mistakes—just because they don't know any better. But there’s no need to be rude about it, like Joe; and I'm glad you hit him—hard."

"So am I. Really glad." He now stood tall, his head held high: proud of his father's approval and being treated as an equal. "But, Dad—what are we going to do ... about Mom? I really want her to know ... it was for her. But I couldn't say—what Joe said. Could you?"

Nevil shook his head.

"Then what?"

"You can count on me, Roy. I’ll clear things up without going over Joe's rude comments. She should have come by already, but I needed to talk to you first—because of the beating!" His eye sparkled. "She's eager to check out your bruises——"

"Oh never mind my bruises. They're fine now."

"And beautiful to see!" He gently tapped the bump on Roy's cheek. "I'd let her take care of it, though. Women love to fuss over us when we're hurt—especially if we’ve been fighting for them!"

"Yes—they do," Roy agreed seriously; and to his surprise, his dad pulled him close and kissed his forehead.

His mother didn’t make him wait long. First, he heard her quick footsteps; then the door opened softly—and she rushed to him, her sari flowing out in beautiful curves. Then he was in her arms, enveloped in her silky softness and the faint scent of sandalwood; as her lips, light as butterfly wings, gently brushed the bruise on his cheek.

"Oh, what a naughty, wicked little Sonling!" she whispered, pulling him close.

He loved her unique way of giving compliments and affection; never realizing its deeper meaning—to keep the jealous gods from watching closely, ready to take away our most cherished possessions that prevent us from letting go. "Such a big, rude boy—and you tried to hurt him just because he didn’t get your unusual kind of mother! You’ll see that often, Roy; because it’s not the norm. It's the same everywhere. For some people, being different from the norm is much worse than being bad. And that boy has a mother who fits the norm too well. It’s no wonder he didn’t understand."

"I made him do it—I really did," Roy bragged without any shame, amazed by his father's cleverness, curious about how much he had revealed. "I worked really hard. And I don't regret it at all. Neither does Dad."

For an answer, she gave him a quick little squeeze—and felt the rustle of paper under his shirt. "Something's hidden there! What is it, Sonling?" she asked with playful eyes, and suddenly he felt shy. For a moment, he had forgotten about his treasure; now he was unsure if he could show it—even to her.

"It’s Tara—I think it’s kind of a secret—" he started.

"But I can see?" Then, as he continued to hesitate, she added with sincere tenderness: "Only if you want to, my dear son. Today—you are a man."

From his father, that recognition had been incredibly uplifting. And now—from her...! The subtle flattery of it and the deeper urging of his own heart shattered his growing attempt at holding back.

"I am—truly," he said; and she, sitting where his father had sat, unfolded Tara's letter—and the bangle was revealed.

Roy hadn’t realized how surprised she would be—and how happy! She gasped a little and whispered something he didn’t catch. Then she looked at him with bright eyes, and her voice had that soft, serious tone that moved him like music.

"Now—you are Bracelet-Bound, my son. So young!"

Roy felt a surge of pride. It was definitely a great thing to be.

"Do I really have to give a 'embroidered bodice'?"

"I will embroider a bodice—the most beautiful one; and you shall give it. Remember, Roy, this is not a small thing. It is forever."

"Even when I'm grown up?"

"Yes, even back then. If she asks you for any help, you must never refuse."

Roy furrowed his brow. He had forgotten that part. Tara could ask anything. You never knew with girls. He felt a moment of anxiety.

"But, Mom, I don't think—Tara didn't mean any of that. It's just—our kind of game to play——"

Unfailingly, she read his thoughts and shook her head at him with a playful smile in her eyes, just like when he made silly faces about Aunt Jane.

"Too sacred to be just a game, Roy. By keeping the bracelet, you're tied to it." Her smile grew wider. "You weren’t scared of the big rude guy. Yet you’re so afraid—for Tara." She emphasized the amount with the rose-pink tip of her smallest finger. "Tara—almost like a sister—would never ask you to do anything wrong."

At this mild criticism, he blushed and held his head up a bit higher.

"I'm not afraid, Mom. And I will keep the bracelet—and I am committed."

"That's my brave son."

"She said, 'I am Prithvi Raj.'"

"She spoke the truth." Her hand gently stroked his hair. "Now you can go downstairs and say that you are forgiven."

"Are you serious, Mom?"

"In a little while. Not right now. But look——" Her eyebrows shot up. "I was on my way to help with your poor bruises!"

"I don't have any bruises."

The captivating confidence was a pleasure for her. A man today—in truth. Her gaze lingered on him. It felt like she was looking through her husband's eyes into her son's heart.

Gravely, she stepped into his mood.

"That's good. Then we'll just tidy you up—and add a tiny dab for this little mark on your cheek."

So much he kindly allowed: then he hurried off to get the cheers waiting for him from Tara and Chris.

Left alone, Lilámani returned to the window with her natural, graceful poise. She sat down again, perfectly still, resting her cheek on her hand, soaking in the calmness and the clear, tranquil green spaces bathed in the soft evening light, like a bride prepared for her groom. The tops of the trees sparkled with brilliance. The young leaves of the beeches and poplars shone like fresh gold coins, and on the lawn, the large twin beeches cast a quietly spreading shadow. Among the bushes under her window, birds were singing joyfully in greeting to the sun, during his Hour of Union with Earth—the Divine Mother, of whom every human mother is seen, in Eastern culture, as a part, a symbol, however imperfect.

Yet, beneath her calm exterior, her heart and spirit were deeply stirred. Despite all of Nevil's talent in telling Roy's championship story, she understood his hidden thoughts just as accurately as she sensed Mrs. Bradley's curiosity and subtle hostility beneath her polite facade, which had not yet been conveyed to her son.

Helen Despard—wife of a retired Lieutenant Governor—had plenty of Anglo-Indian friends; however, not all of them shared her passion for India or her deep understanding of its people. Lilámani had quickly realized that the enthusiastic statement, "I love India," often actually meant that the speaker loved riding, dancing, sunshine, and open spaces, with 'the real India' just serving as a vague background. By now, she could almost identify at a glance which Anglo-Indians were the right ones and which were the wrong ones, at least where she and Nevil were concerned. It wasn't typical for Helen to introduce her to the wrong kind, but it had all been Mrs. Bradley's doing. She had been unreasonably insistent on seeing the beautiful old garden and the famous artist-Baronet who had so boldly defied tradition. Helen's weak excuses had been brushed off dismissively, and outright refusing was simply out of the question for her.

She had openly explained everything to her beloved Lilámani as they walked together on the lawn, while Roy was educating Joe on the other side of the yew hedge.

His victory had affected her more deeply than she was willing to let him know without spilling everything she understood. For the same reason, she couldn’t fully express her gratitude to Nevil for his sensitivity and thoughtfulness. How pointless—trying to conceal his feelings—he should know that by now: but how lovely—how charming!

That she, who had boldly defied all gods and godlings, all claims of caste and family, should have reaped such a rich reward—! For her—high priestess of the inner life—that was the miracle of miracles: hardly less so today than in that crowning moment when she placed her first baby boy in her husband's arms—still, at heart, the master of her being. For the story of her inner life could almost be summed up in two words—she loved.

Even now—so many years later—she was thrilled to remember how, in that one magical moment, without being close or speaking or touching, the threads of their fates had become so miraculously intertwined that neither gods, godlings, nor the tyrants of East or West had the power to separate them. From that quick sketch he drew without permission—him sitting on the path below, her dreaming on the hotel balcony above—had blossomed the dual flower of their love: the deeper revelation of marriage—its living texture woven of joy and pain; and the wonder of their life together—a wonder that, to her passionate, sensitive spirit, still felt new every morning, like the sunrise. A poet at heart, she shared with all true poets that sense of eternal freshness in familiar things that, perhaps more than any other gift from God, keeps the beauty in every phase and every relationship of life. With her talented temperament, she had ignited in her husband the flickering spark that might have otherwise been extinguished by opposing influences. Each had, in a quite unique way, fulfilled the other’s life, and so created harmony from the conflicting elements of race and religion that seemed destined to ruin their brave adventure. To gain everything, they had risked everything: and events had surprisingly justified them.

Within a year of his impulsive marriage, Sir Nevil had amazed everyone who knew him with the unique Exhibition of the now-famous Ramayána paintings, inspired by his wife: a series of striking canvases that depicted the story of India's great epic, showcasing her belief in two supreme loyalties—of the Queen to her husband, and of the King to his people. His bold endeavor had exceeded all expectations. The artistic and critical circles in London had welcomed him as a promising newcomer, nearly a genius: and Lilámani Sinclair, daughter of Rajputs, had narrowly avoided becoming the fleeting trend by abruptly retreating to Antibes, where she almost lost everything, largely due to the harmful influence of Jane—her troublesome companion during those extraordinary, challenging early months of marriage.

Nevil had come back to find that he was a well-known figure; a kind of prophet, even in his own county, where people had been a bit unsettled by his unpredictable actions. As a result, the neighborhood's attitude had subtly shifted when Lilámani, just nineteen, had given birth to a son for her husband.

But—for all the gracious kindness of the elderly and the open curiosity of the young—only a few discerning individuals had truly connected with this attractive, oddly unsettling child from another continent; this being of strange reserves, aloofness, and passionate pride in her heritage. Even the friendliest were puzzled by her inexplicable lack of social intuition, a result of India's purdah system. Devoted wives and mothers who 'loved' their children—yet spent most of their day focused on other interests—were taken aback by her complete absorption in the joys and sanctities of home. However, over time, her clear simplicity and sincerity had melted away prejudice. Even the least observant could see that she was genuinely, fundamentally different, not just in her colorful silks and saris but in the very essence of her spirit.

Not that they would have said it like that. Talking about the soul and its color seemed a bit out there or dark—which God forbid! The soul of the decent Bramleigh matron was a neutral-colored, properly hidden ghost, acknowledged morning and night, also on Sundays, but definitely not allowed to mess with the real world.

The soul of Lilámani Sinclair—quivering, passionate, and full of ambition—was a vibrant flame that illuminated her thoughts, her prayers, her desires; and it burned even brighter because her faith had been freed from all celebrations, rituals, and traditions by a marriage that permanently placed her outside of caste. The inner Truth—unclouded by earthly distractions—was something no one could take away from her.

God revealed through Nature, the Divine Mother, surely must accept her offerings and the sacrifice of the spirit, since no other was allowed. Her father had given her that assurance, and she held onto it, much like a child in a crowd confidently holds onto the one familiar hand.

She was still eager to learn everything she could about the religion her husband followed, even though it seemed he didn’t truly believe in it. Her hidden discomfort over this was somewhat eased by the realization that he was the one protecting her from the unspoken pressure to convert, which some of his family expected from her. Jane—respecting his wishes—had held back from direct confrontation; however, several indirect attempts had been made through the Vicar (a second cousin) and Aunt Julia—a gentle older Sinclair who was devoted to foreign missions.

She hadn’t told Nevil about her tentative explorations into her beliefs, fearing it would annoy him and he would dismiss them for good. Being knowledgeable about their Holy Book, she wanted to understand their strange, illogical beliefs. She could accept the Christianity of Christ; it was a faith rooted in the heart and life. But its rigid forms and doctrines were a challenge for this shy Hindu girl, who calmly pointed out to Reverend Jeffrey Sale that the teachings of his Church weren’t really inspired by Christ but were dictated by Constantine and the Council of Nicea. She questioned why, in such a significant religion, there was no true worship of women—no acknowledgment of the Divine Motherhood of God in the creative principle. In the end, she shocked both of them by arguing against their exclusive belief in a single instance throughout endless ages of the All-embracing and All-creating expressed in human life. Wasn’t that same idea part of her own faith—a universal teaching of Indo-Aryan origin? Was every other revelation false, except for the one given to a non-believing people just two thousand years ago? To her—unregenerate but not disbelieving—the message of Krishna resonated more deeply. "Wherever irreligion prevails and true religion declines, there I manifest myself in a human form to establish righteousness and to destroy evil."

So she questioned and challenged, not out of disrespect, but simply with the reasoning of her culture and the gentle rationality that is a core part of the Hindu faith at its best. However, after that last admission, Aunt Julia, hurt and confused, had stepped away from the conversation. And Lilámani, left to rely on the God within, had created her own personal belief system; shedding the outer layers of Christian doctrines and the more primitive superstitions of her own faith, and blending together the mystical elements that are the essence of all religious beliefs.

For the lamps are many, but the flame is one....

Not until she had fully embraced motherhood and raised her status—at least in her own eyes—did she feel comfortable discussing this important issue with Nevil. Even though she was not allowed to participate in sacred ceremonies, she could still hope to be a true Sahardamini—'spiritual helpmate.' But for that to happen, he would need to cooperate; he must recognize the deeper need....

For many weeks after Roy's arrival, she had hesitated before she found the courage to venture further into the unclear area of his beliefs or doubts about unseen things.

"If I'm frustrating you with difficult questions—please forgive me. However, in our Indian way of marriage, it's believed that true union can't happen without sharing a spiritual life," she explained, feeling a bit anxious that she might not get the response she hoped for. And what that lack of response would mean for her, she could hardly expect him to grasp.

But—thanks to Sarasvati, the Giver of Wisdom—she had managed, beyond her wildest dreams, to break through his people's shy reluctance to discuss the 'big little things.' Even today, she could remember the excitement of that moment: he, kneeling next to the large chair in his studio—their sanctuary; she holding the warm bundle of new life against her chest.

In one long look, his eyes had responded to her. "Nothing short of 'true union' will satisfy me," he said with a quiet seriousness that was more powerful than any lovers' passion. "God knows if I'm worthy to enter your inner space. But unwilling—never. In the 'big little things,' you stand out. I am just your extra child—mother of my son."

That tribute was her declaration of marriage. It connected love with life; it freed her once and for all from the lingering fear of Jane; and it gave her the strength to confront the upcoming trip to India, when Roy was six months old, to introduce him to his grandfather, Sir Lakshman Singh.

They had been there for almost a year; an amazing year of growing understanding, of greater awareness ... and yet!

The ache of anticipation had been too intense. The silly half-hope that Mátaji might change her mind and bless this first grandchild was, by its very nature, destined to fail. It wasn’t until she returned to sights and sounds that felt hauntingly familiar that she fully realized the changes marriage to someone of a different race had brought to her. She had deeply impacted Nevil's personality, and he had equally influenced her values in both art and life.

She also had to deal with the sneaky tendency to romanticize what was missing. Deeply rooted in her Indian identity, she was profoundly influenced by the high ideals of Hindu philosophy—a beautiful blend of moonlight and mysticism, logic and dreams. Yet, the new Lilámani, shaped by Nevil, couldn’t ignore the degrading forms of worship, the dark depths of harsh superstition, and the hidden demons of cruelty and despair. While Nevil was soaking in the impressions of Indian art, Lilámani was quietly assessing and exploring the Indian spirit that inspired it; separating the valuable from the worthless—a process closely tied to her personal life because, for India, religion and life are one.

But no shadow had clouded the joy of reuniting with her father; because both were skilled in the fine art of loving, the foundation of every human relationship. And in conversations with him, she could untangle her mix of feelings, her hidden doubts and fears.

Also, there was Rama, the older brother, who was in college and still loving his sister, who had become an English wife—but she was still his sister. They had also discovered more of the wonders of India during their travels northward, even to the Himalayas, the dwelling place of Shiva, where Nevil had to go to escape the heat and paint more pictures—always more pictures. Traveling didn’t suit her. She was too much a person of shrines and sacred places. And in India—where her spirit belonged—there seemed to be no true home for her anymore....

Five years later, when Roy was six and Christine was two and a half, they were tempted to visit again, despite Jane's strong objections, as she believed that any contact with India would be harmful to the children they had wrongly decided to bring into the world. This second trip was easier, and there was the added joy of Roy's enthusiastic interest; his growing attachment to his grandfather, whose pride and joy in him matched her own.

"In this little guy, we have the hope of England and India!" he would say, only half-joking. "With the best of East and West in his soul, he will banish the demons of conflict and suspicion and bring the two closer to understanding each other."

And secretly, Lilámani dreamed and hoped that someday ... maybe ... who knows—?

Yet, there was still a feeling of a growing gap between her and her own people, leaving her uncertain if she ever wanted to see India again. The spiritual connection would always exist; as for everything else—was she not Nevil's wife and Roy's mother? It seemed ungrateful to be upset if a sacrifice had to be made for such incredible good fortune.

For herself, she paid it willingly. But—did Roy have to pay too? And in what way? How could she not instill in him the best ideals of her heritage? But what if the pull of India was too strong—? Balancing everything felt like a tough challenge for human weakness. And her time of complete control was quickly fading away. Always, in the back of her mind, the looming fear of school was present; her Eastern soul couldn’t accept it without a fight. Just yesterday, Nevil had brought it up again—probably because Jane caused trouble—saying that waiting too long would be unfair to Roy. So, it had to be no later than next September. Just fifteen months away! Nevil had joked that it wouldn’t send him to another planet. But it would throw him into a completely different world—totally unfamiliar to her. She realized she knew almost nothing about its dangers, its ideals, or its mysterious influences. She had to read. She had to try to understand. She had to trust that Nevil knew best—she, who had too much love and not enough knowledge. But she wasn’t supported by any faith in this English school system, with its decision for too early separation from the vital influences of mother, father—and home....

Later that evening, when she knelt by Roy's bed for their good-night chat and prayer, with his arms around her neck and his cool cheek against hers, the rebellion she couldn’t completely suppress rose up in her again. But she didn’t say a word.

It was Roy who spoke, as if he could read her emotions.

"Mom, Aunt Jane's been talking to Dad again about school. Oh, I really hate her!" (This in fervent parenthesis.)

She just held on tighter and felt a slight tremor pass through him.

"Will it be really soon? Has Dad told you?"

"Yes, my love. But not too soon, because he knows I don't want that."

"When?"

"Not until next year, in the fall. September."

"Oh, you're the best, Mummy!"

He held her tightly in a rush of relief. For him, a year of relief felt like a lifetime. For her, it would pass like a watch in the night.

It was a clear, mild Sunday afternoon in November—soft sunlight, light sky, long stretches of layered clouds. From the base of orange-tawny cliffs, the sands spread out with the tide, shining like rippled silk where the sea had revealed them; and sunlight pooled in spots and little furrows: the sea itself was grey-green and very still, with streaks and patches of purple shadow cast by no visible clouds. The beauty and mystery of it all fascinated Roy, who felt irresistibly drawn to the things he couldn’t understand.

He was sitting alone near the edge of a wooded cliff, troubles momentarily forgotten, soaking it all in...

His fifteen months of freedom had gone by faster than anyone could have imagined. It was over—everything was over. No more lessons with Tara under the beech tree. No more joyful hours in the studio, diving into the mysteries of math and Homer, of shapes and colors, with his dad, who seemed to understand the reason behind everything. Worse than all that—no more Mom, to make the whole world beautiful with the colors of her saris and the beauty and warmth of her face, her laughter, and her voice.

It was all over. He was at school: not Coombe Friars, as Aunt Jane decided; but St Rupert's, because the Head was an artist friend of his father's and would take a personal interest in Roy.

But the Head, no matter how kind, felt distant; and the boys, who couldn’t really be called kind, surrounded him on all sides. His shy, sensitive nature recoiled from the strange faces and bodies that crowded around him—during meals, at bedtime, in the classroom, on the playground; some were curious and friendly, while others were curious and hostile—a complete nightmare of boys who wouldn’t leave him alone. The more they closed in on him, the more he felt completely, miserably alone.

As the endless weeks dragged on, there were interesting, even exciting moments—when you hardly felt the ache. But other times—like evenings and Sundays—it hit you harder than ever. Throughout those weeks, he learned a number of things not covered in school. He figured out that it was better to grit your teeth and not cry out when your ears were pulled or your arm was twisted, or when an unexpected pin was stuck into the soft part of your leg. But inside him, there burned a fire of rage and hate that his tormentors didn’t even suspect. It wasn’t just the pain; it was the fact that they seemed to take pleasure in hurting him, and he could neither understand nor forgive that.

And by now he felt more than a little ashamed of those early letters to his mom, spilling out his misery of loneliness and longing; of desperate threats to run away or jump off the cliff, which oddly hadn’t softened his dad’s heart. It seemed he knew all about it. He had been through it himself. But Mom didn’t know; so she got upset. And Mom must not be upset, no matter what happened to Roy, who was told to “suck it up and be a man” and he would feel better for it. That tough advice had done more than hurt and shame him. It had steadied him when he needed it most. He had somehow managed to suck it up and be a man; and he was already feeling better for it.

So his trust in the father who wouldn’t upset Mummy had grown tenfold; the letter he had almost ripped to shreds was kept, like a charm, in his wallet—Tara's farewell gift.

It was on the Sunday of the chaotic threats that he had wandered off alone and found the small woods on the cliff in all its autumn beauty. It was a pretty ordinary woods with a mix of trees and a cluster of tall pines at one end. But for Roy, any woods was a place of magic; and this one had trees all leaning in one direction, with an air of crouching and rushing that made them seem almost alive; and the moment they surrounded him, he was back in his old familiar world of imagination, where nothing that happened in houses mattered at all....

Strolling on, carefree and happy, he had reached a spot where the trees parted, revealing deep blue stretches of sea and sky. For some reason, they looked bluer, more beautiful framed like this than from the open shore; and there—sitting alone at the edge of everything, he felt oddly comforted; he decided to keep his discovery a deeply held secret; and to come here every Sunday for 'sanctuary'; to think up stories or write poetry—a very personal joy.

And this afternoon was the best of all. If only the protective leaves wouldn't drop so quickly!

He had been sitting for a long time, pencil in hand, waiting for words to come; when suddenly, instead, he was met with the very sounds he had been trying to escape—the chatter and laughter of boys.

They seemed terrifyingly close, right under the overhanging cliff; and their laughter and teasing had that mocking tone he recognized all too well. Soon, he heard a high-pitched voice shouting defiantly, which suddenly turned into whimpering—a sound that made Roy's heart race. He couldn’t make out what they were saying or see what they were doing. He didn’t want to see. He hated all of them.

Listening—yet dreading to hear—he recognized the voice of Bennet Ma., known—just out of earshot—as Scab Major. Is there any school, at any time, completely free of this type? It sounded more like a rough joke than a cruel prank; but the whimpering unseen victim seemed to have no fight in him: and Roy could only sit there wondering helplessly what kind of people find it entertaining to hurt and scare others who have done them no harm....

And now Scab Major's voice was clear: "After that show, he'll definitely salute all of us, turn around. If he hasn't learned yet, we'll teach him how."

The word salaam struck a chord with Roy. Yesterday, there had been a buzz of curiosity about the late arrival of a new boy—an Indian—who looked fragile and was noticeably darker, with a downturned mouth and shifty eyes. Although Roy was very interested, he didn’t feel compelled to reach out to him; a new instinct for self-protection kept him from making any advances that could complicate things for both of them. He had never considered that the boy’s skin color would work against him. Was that what it meant—making him salaam?

At the slightest hint of suspicion, fear turned into anger. They were like wild animals! If only he could jump at them or roll some stones to frighten them out of their minds. But he couldn't make a move without revealing his secret. And while he hesitated, his gaze unconsciously tracked a small figure in the distance on the glimmering sand.

It was a boy on a bike—hatless, head up high, sitting very straight. There was only one boy at St Rupert's who held his head that way and rode his bike like that. Right from the start, Roy had watched him secretly, with deep admiration; wanting to know him, but too shy to ask his name. But so far, the almost-godlike boy, surrounded by friends, had barely seemed to notice he was there.

Swiftly, he moved closer; and with a sudden rush of his heart, Roy realized he had seen——

Springing off his bike, he jumped into the small group of bullies, swinging his fists powerfully in all directions. The shock of his attack and the intensity of his fury gave him the upper hand; the guilty feelings of the less aggressive ones were on his side....

This wasn't cruelty, but a show of skill: and Roy, eager to witness everything, lay flat on his stomach—forgetting the risk of being caught—grabbing the edge of the cliff that bent inward, celebrating the victory of the rescuer and the defeat of the enemy.

Bennet Major, one of the first to break away, spotted and grabbed the fallen bike. At that, Roy panicked; leaned way over and yelled a warning, "Hey! Watch out!"

But the Scab took off like the wind: and the others, startled by a voice out of nowhere, quickly followed suit.

Roy, pushing himself up on his hands, let out a sudden burst of joy that quickly turned into a backward jerk ... too late!

The crumbling edge was breaking apart under his hands, under his body. No time for fear. His sudden move finished it off....

Down he went—over and over; his Sunday hat bouncing happily ahead; nothing to hold onto anywhere; but luckily, no stones——

The thought hit him, "I'm dead!" And five seconds later he rolled—gasping and sputtering—to the feet of the two other boys, who had jumped back just in time to avoid the dusty avalanche.

There he lay—shocked and dazed—his eyes and mouth filled with sand, as well as his pockets, boots, and the inside of his shirt. Nothing seemed to be broken. And he wasn’t dead!

Someone was brushing the sand off his face, and he opened his eyes to see the person helping him kneeling beside him, looking both surprised and worried.

"I gotta say, that was a pretty average fall! What kind of adventure were you having? Are you okay?"

"Just bumped into you a little," Roy panted, still catching his breath. "I guess it surprised you. I'm sorry."

The bareheaded one laughed. "You scared the Scab's minions a whole lot more. Clear the way! And what a welcome goodbye—right, Chandranath?"

To that friendly request, the Indian boy gave a quiet agreement. He stood slightly away, looking glum, uncertain, and really uncomfortable, with tear marks still on his face.

"Thanks a lot. I'm leaving now," he said suddenly; and Roy felt pretty annoyed with him. Any sympathy had disappeared. But the other boy's good mood seemed unshakeable.

"If you're not in a rush, we can head back together."

Chandranath shook his head. "I don't want to go back. I'd rather be alone."

"As you wish. Those jerks won't bother you again."

"If they do—I will kill them."

He made that shocking announcement in a fierce whisper. It sounded like the voice of someone from a different race.

And the English boy's response was just as typical. "You got it. Give me a heads-up and I'll help out."

Chandranath stared blankly. "But—they're from your country," he said; and turning, walked off in the opposite direction.

"A weird guy," Roy's new friend said. "Totally out of place here. Really dumb to send him to an English school."

"Why?" Roy asked, sitting up and brushing himself off.

"Oh, because——" the boy frowned thoughtfully at the horizon. "That needs some explaining if you're not familiar with India."

"D'you know India?" Roy couldn't hide the excitement in his voice.

"Actually, I was born there. North-West Frontier. My name's Desmond. We all belong there. I was out until seven-thirty, and I’ll go back like a bird as soon as I’m done with Marlborough."

He spoke very softly, but beneath that calm, Roy sensed there was determination—there was passion. This boy knew exactly what he wanted to do with his life—such a big, vague idea filled with thrilling possibilities. He stood there, straight as an arrow, gazing out at the sea; and just like an arrow, he would head straight for his goal once school and college were behind him. Roy vaguely understood this, and his curiosity was mixed with envy. If they all 'belonged,' he wondered if they were Indians; but he decided they weren't, because of Desmond's coppery brown hair. He wanted to understand more—to hear more. He almost forgot that he was at school.

"We belong too——" he said shyly; and Desmond turned with a spark of excitement in his eyes.

"Good egg! Which Province?"

"Rajasthan."

"Oh—miles away. Which service?"

Roy looked confused. "I—don't know. You see—it's my mother—that belongs. My grandfather's a minister in a big Native State out there."

"Wow—I can't believe it!"

There was a hint of change in his tone. His direct gaze was a bit awkward. He appeared to be thinking about Roy in a different way.

"I—I never would have guessed," he said; and added a bit too quickly: "We don't fit in like that. We're all Anglo-Indians—Frontier Force." (Clearly a good thing to be, thought Roy, confused but impressed.) "Is your dad in the Political?"

More puzzles! But, encouraged by Desmond's friendliness, Roy became more confident.

"No. He hates politics. He's just—a nice guy."

Desmond laughed out loud.

"Awesome! He couldn't have done any better. But—if your mom—he must have been in India?"

"After that—they left. I've been there too. He found Mom in France. He painted her. He's a pretty well-known painter."

"What’s your name?"

"Sinclair."

"Oh, I've heard of him.—And your people are always home. Lucky guy!" He sat quietly for a moment, watching Roy take off his boot. Then he asked out of the blue, in a tone that attempted to sound casual: "Hey, have you told any of the other guys—about India—and your mom?"

"No—why? Is there any harm?" Roy instantly went on the defensive.

"Well—no. With the right kind of people, it wouldn't matter at all. But just look at what some of them are like—Bennet Ma. and his gang. Going after that poor guy, just because he isn't their color——"

Roy was surprised. "Was it really just because of that?" he asked, stressing his words.

"'Course it was. Obvious as can be. I guess they pressured him into talking back to them. And they were pushing him down on his knees—making him bow. Twin sparks lit up in his eyes. "That kind of stuff—makes me feel like I'm about to explode. I wish I'd had a boiling kettle to dump over Bennet."

"So do I—the nasty Scab! And he's taken your bike."

"No worries! I'm sure we'll find it just around the corner. He wouldn't have the guts to just take off with it. But let me get back to the main point—if any of those people found out—about India and—your mom, well—they're just terrible people, some of them. They could say things that would really get on your nerves."

"If they did, I would kill them."

Roy stated the fact calmly and carefully, not realizing that he had repeated the exact words of the vanished victim.

This time, Desmond took it seriously.

"'Of course you would," he agreed seriously. "And that kind of commotion is no good for the school. So I thought—better give you a heads-up——"

"I—see," Roy said quietly, not looking up. He didn't really see; but he started to vaguely understand a previously unknown and unexpected state of mind.

Desmond sat quietly as he shook the sand out of his boots. Then he said in a more relaxed tone, "Are you absolutely sure there's no damage?"

Roy, now standing, found his left leg uncomfortably stiff—and he mentioned it.

"Unlucky! We need to shake it off. I can massage it first, if you want. I've seen them do it on the Border."

His clumsy touch hurt quite a bit; but Roy, overwhelmed with gratitude, showed no sign of it.

When it was over, they headed back home and discovered the bicycle, just like Desmond had predicted. He refused to continue riding, and Roy limped alongside him, feeling ridiculously happy. The godlike figure had indeed come down to earth! Only the comment about his mother still bothered him, but he felt hesitant to bring it up again. Desmond's change in behavior had confused him. Roy looked admiringly at his profile—the straight nose, the long mouth that smiled so easily, the determined chin, a bit lifted. It was a clear case of love at first sight, schoolboy love; a fleeting moment of youthful bloom; yet, even in passing, it can sometimes leave a lasting impression. Roy, naturally a hero-worshipper, felt a new ambition rise within him—to become Desmond's friend.

Presently, as if sensing his thoughts, Desmond spoke.

"I’m curious, Sinclair, how old are you? You seem more mature than most of the newcomers."

"I'm ten and a half," Roy said, hoping it was eleven.

"Starting a bit late. I'm twelve. Heading to Marlborough next year."

Roy felt overwhelmed. In a year he would be gone! Still—there were three more terms: and he would go on to Marlborough too. He would make sure of it.

"Does Scab Ma. bother you a lot?" Desmond asked with a friendly sparkle in his eye.

"Every now and then—no big deal."

Roy's casual attitude, while brave, wasn't entirely convincing.

"Alright! I'll intercept him. He doesn't seem eager to run into me." A pause. "What do you think about sitting closer to me at meals? You don't look very happy over there."

"I'm not. It would be tearing."

"Great. We'll stick together, right? Because of India; because we both belong—in our own way. And we'll stand up for that miserable little guy Chandranath."

"Yes—we will." (The pride of that 'we.') "Still, I really don't like the way he looks."

"No way. He's the wrong guy. He won’t last long—you’ll see. But still—he shouldn't be pushed around by Scabs just because he looks different. You see that kind of thing in India too. My dad is really against it because it creates more hatred than anything else; I’ve heard him say that it’s only those jerks who brag about being the superior race who cause all the trouble with their terrible behavior. Pretty clever, right?"

Roy beamed. "Your dad must be an impressive guy. Is he in the military?"

"Rather! He's a V.C. He earned it by saving a Jemadar—a Native Officer."

Roy took a deep breath.

"I would really love to hear how——"

Desmond explained how....

It was an amazing walk. By the end of it, Roy no longer felt like a lonely speck in a foreign world. He had discovered something better than his Sanctuary—he had found a friend.

Looking back, much later, he realized that Sunday was the turning point....

Later in the evening, he shared everything with his mother in four tightly written sheets.

But she didn't say anything about herself or Desmond's friendly warning, which still confused him. He thought about it a bit before falling asleep. It was the first hint—given with kindness—that just having an Indian mother might count against you in the eyes of some people. Not the right ones, of course; but still, it didn't make sense to him. He would figure it out later.

At that moment, it only served to enhance his personal satisfaction at having confronted Joe Bradley; to strengthen his sense of responsibility towards his mother and India, until eventually, the intensity of his passionate devotion merged them both into one central idea.

Lilámani read and re-read that letter while curled up among her cushions in the deep window seat of the studio, a tower room with tall windows facing north, over the jagged pine treetops, to the open moor.

And while she read, Nevil stood at his easel, capturing and noting the natural elegance of her pose and the deep stillness of her face. He never got tired of painting her—never fully happy with the outcome; always on the verge of creating that one perfect painting that would capture a glimpse of her inner, uncatchable beauty—the essence of her personality that constantly eludes understanding, even as it moves the spirit. It was impossible, of course. It was like trying to capture the scent of a rose, the beauty of an April dawn, or any other piece of the world's fleeting beauty. But there was still joy in the pursuit—and chasing, rather than achieving, is what gives life its flavor.

Something in her stance, her focus—lips slightly parted, shadows of her lashes on her cheek, the pale primrose sari against the green velvet curtain—had ignited something in him, sparking inspiration....

If he did a good job with it, Roy should have it as a companion to the Antibes pastel: her two sides—wife of Nevil; mother of Roy. Eventually, the boy would understand. His luck was especially good at that moment. Nevil had hated writing that letter of criticism; he hadn’t dared to show it to his wife; and Roy had handled it like a man. So far, no more complaints. Definitely not this time, judging by her captivated expression, her total focus that gave him the opportunity to catch her off guard.

For, in truth, she was unaware; lost in everything but the joy of being with her son. The pain of parting had faded into a hidden ache; but the emptiness was always there, even if filled with other demands on her heart and spirit. It was a bigger classroom now: and Nevil, with his new Eastern picture in progress, constantly needed her attention—as usual—during the early stages; until the topic of the moment overshadowed everything and everyone—sometimes even herself. Her earlier pangs of jealousy during that time rarely bothered her now. As a wife and mother, she better understood the dual commitment—the twofold strain of the creative process, whether in spirit or body. Now she realized that when art seemed to claim him most, his need for her nurturing and selfless support was greater, not less. And through deeper love came clearer understanding. She saw Nevil—the artist—like a true Yogi, driven to relentlessly master himself, his environment, and his medium: she recognized her love and support as the vital force without which he might lose energy and never reach his potential.

Women engaged in various social and intellectual pursuits might raise raised eyebrows at her isolated life, still alive with the 'spirit of purdah.' She found the daily routine woven with such diverse threads that to hold onto a hidden sorrow felt like a betrayal. Yet always—lurking in the background—were her silly motherly worries and her deep, unspoken yearning. Letters offered little comfort. In the first few weeks, she had grown to dread opening them. They always echoed with the bitter cry of loneliness and a longing for home. What had Nevil said to cause such a surprising change? Eager to find out, she was afraid to ask; and she suspected that he was grateful to her for holding back.

And now came this long, thrilling letter, written in the initial excitement of his amazing discovery—

And as she read on, she started to feel something new. This was a different side of Roy. On the first page, he was pouring out his feelings in messy, scattered words. By the end of the second, his story had captured him; he was enjoying—maybe without realizing it—the thrill of a newly-discovered talent. And, finally looking up to share it with Nevil, she found him tracing a curve of her sari in mid-air.

With a playful gesture—completely Eastern—she pulled it partway over her face.

"Oh, Nevil—you naughty! I never figured out——"

"That was the beauty of it. I send my greetings to Roy! What's he been up to that it takes four pages to confess?"

"Not confessing. Telling a story. It will surprise you."

"Let's take a look."

She handed him the letter, and while he read it, she watched his face closely. "I wouldn't be surprised if the boy writes," was his verdict as he returned her treasure, a strange half-smile in his eyes.

"And you were hoping—he would paint?" she said, responding to his thought.

"Yeah, but—I hardly expected that. Sons can be a difficult bunch. I'm glad he's landed on his feet and found a friend."

"Yes, it's good."

"We'll invite young Desmond over and check him out, okay?"

"Yes, we will."

He was quiet for a moment, looking at her profile—humanly, not artistically. "Jealous, is she? A tiny bit?"

"Just that much!" she admitted in her soft voice. "But deep down—I’m glad. A great guy. We’ll ask him—later."

The planned invitation turned out to be unnecessary. Roy's next letter told them that Desmond was coming for ten full days after Christmas. He had promised.

He kept his promise. After Christmas, he came, saw, and conquered. At first, everyone was secretly critical of the new presence that seemed to be there to stay. Roy's subtly repressed admiration was obvious to those who could read him like an open book. Overall, it wasn't surprising as they slowly began to accept. There was more to Lance Desmond than just charm and good looks, masculinity, and a quick sense of humor. He combined two remarkable personalities with a uniquely positive outcome.

They found out, by chance, about his amazing musical talent. "I got it from my mom," he said humbly. "She and my sister are just fantastic. We do a lot of it together."

His smart enjoyment of pictures and books impressed Nevil; however, at twelve and a half, skating, hiking, and hockey games took priority. Sometimes—when they went skating—Tara and Chris joined them. But they made it clear, in a friendly way, that the main focus was to go alone.

Day after day, from her window, Lilámani watched them leave across the bright expanse of the snow-covered lawn; and, for the first time regarding Roy, she felt a stab of jealousy—a hint of the day when her love would no longer be part of his life. Ashamed of her own weakness, she tried to hide it—or thought she did; but the small, painful ache continued, despite her shame and determined resolve.

Tara and Christine also felt the awful pain; but they felt neither shame nor stoic determination. Roy mustn't suspect, of course; but they told each other, in complete confidence, that they hated Desmond; genuinely believing they were being honest. So it was especially frustrating to discover that the moment he showed them even the slightest attention, they were at his feet.

But that was their own private issue. Whether they felt resentment or admiration, the boys were completely indifferent, fully focused on each other. Desmond's opinion of them was what mattered most to Roy; specifically—Desmond's view of his mother. After those initial confusing comments and silences, Roy had kept quiet; he hadn’t even shown Desmond her picture. With his invitation accepted, he simply waited, in complete faith, for the moment of revelation. And now he had his reward. After a moment of shared awkwardness, Lance had openly given in to Lady Sinclair's unexpected charm and her shyer, irresistible gestures of friendship—so openly that he was now able to allude to his earlier confusion.

He had never seen any Indian women, he said, except in markets or while they were working; so he couldn't fully grasp it until his mom clarified things and suggested he go see for himself. Now he had seen—and fallen for it: and Roy's very personal victory was pure. Second only to that victory, the real key takeaway from their amazing Ten Days was that, with Desmond's help, Roy tackled the challenge of moving on to Marlborough when he was twelve—and succeeded....

It was awful having to leave them all again, but it really made a big difference knowing Desmond was waiting at the other end; together they would support that somewhat grateful victim—Chandranath. Their enthusiasm turned out to be unnecessary. Chandranath never showed up at St Rupert's again. Maybe his family agreed with Desmond's conclusion that he wasn't the right "jat" for an English school. Regardless, his absence was a relief—and Roy quickly forgot all about him.

Years later—many years later—he would remember.

After St Rupert's—Marlborough:—at first he really disliked it, just like he had with St Rupert's, but for different reasons. Here, it wasn't just the homesickness; it was more of a vague but growing feeling that, in some important way—not fully understood yet—he was different from the others. But once he got to Desmond's study, the good times started for real. He could read and dream in his own way. He could write poetry or prose when he should have been focusing on other things; and whatever he created, good or bad, went straight to his mom.

Needless to say, she found them all full of potential; now and then, a glimpse of the divine spark appeared. Throughout the years of change, the locked and cherished book that held them was the lifeline she clung to until the new Roy could be forged from the setbacks and renewals that came with that challenging time. What did his youthful flaws matter, when—for her—it felt like Roy's spirit reached across the distance and connected with her own? During the times he seemed most distant, that cherished illusion was her source of strength.

And all the while, subconsciously, she was getting closer to the moment of spiritual surrender that would complete the connection with her husband and children. As the kids got older, she recognized more clearly the growing difficulty of her situation. Honestly, she had tried not to acknowledge it. Her free spirit, having reached a level of understanding that goes beyond all forms, hesitated to return to the dogmas and limitations of a specific belief system. To her, it felt like regressing. Belief in a personal God, existing beyond the Universe, was viewed by her own faith as a primitive idea; just a stage on the journey to that ultimate destination where the human soul recognizes its own inherent divinity, and the knower becomes the known, like notes becoming music, like the river merging with the sea. This was what troubled her logical mind and delayed her decision.

But the final deciding factor—though he didn't realize it—was Roy. Because of her own connection to him, religion would probably mean more to him than it did to Nevil. For his sake—for Christine's, Tara's, and the babies, who were quickly growing into boys—she finally felt an overwhelming need to accept, with some personal reservations, the beliefs of her husband's faith; and so she qualified herself to participate in all its outward and visible expressions, just as she already shared its inner and spiritual grace.

The belief didn’t come from just a fleeting emotion. It was the result of years of careful thought. So, when it came time for Roy and Tara to be confirmed that same Easter, that belief transformed into a decision, as effortlessly and naturally as a flower bud opens to the sun. That’s the greatest strength of changes that happen from within. When the moment arrived, the inner determination was ready.

Quite simply, she talked about it to Nevil one evening by the studio fire. And to her surprise, he seemed more deeply affected than ever. Ever since Roy arrived, he told her, he had held onto a secret hope.

"Yet you rarely talk about things like that—why?" she asked, feeling emotional and surprised.

"Because from the beginning, I decided I wouldn't have it unless it was in your own way and at your own pace. I understood that its true nature was within you. As for the rest—I preferred to wait until you were ready—Sita Devi."

"Nevil—my lord!" She dropped to her knees beside him. "I am ready. But oh, you wicked man, how could I have known that all along you cared that much in your hidden heart."

He pulled her close and said nothing.

So the big issue was resolved, with no outward fuss or formalities. She would be baptized before Roy came home for the Easter holidays and his confirmation.

"But not here—not Mr. Sale," she begged. "Let's just go quietly to London—the two of us. Let it be in that great Church, where this thought first came to my heart that someday ... this could happen."

He couldn't say no to her. Jeffrey might feel wronged when he found out. But really—this was their own business. There would be plenty of time later to deal with the world and all its loud opinions.

Roy was told when he got home. In sharing such personal news, she really needed his genuine reaction. And if Nevil's satisfaction resonated more deeply, it was just because Roy was very young and had always seen her Hindu identity as a normal part of life.

Wonderful days! Getting the kids ready, with Helen's help; getting herself ready, in the quiet of her "House of Gods"—a small room above the studio—in much the same way she had gotten ready for the big wedding, with waiting and thinking and discreet fasting—noted by Nevil, though he said nothing.

Crowning wonder of all, that golden Easter morning of her first Communion with Roy and Tara, with Nevil and Helen:—unfolding of heart and spirit, of leaf and blossom; dual miracle of a world new made....

Oxford on a clear, calm evening in June: shimmering stretches of the Isis and Cher rivers; fields speckled with moon daisies and clover, and the rosy bloom of ripe grasses; the sound of hidden birds warming up for their evening songs; the comings and goings of boats, canoes, and punts, bright with cushions and summer dresses; all illuminated by the soft glow that washes over the earth like a gentle presence in the final hours of a summer day....

Oxford—home to the oldest traditions and the latest trends—hosted, for one hilarious week, the annual influx of mothers, sisters, cousins, and girls who didn’t fit neatly into any category; especially those girls who didn’t fit at all....

Two of the small boats, obviously holding one group, stayed close enough together for the people inside to exchange clever jokes or any lighthearted silliness that matched the joyful vibe of a moonlit picnic by the river during 'Commem.'

Roy Sinclair's party had the unique feature of including one mother, Lady Despard; and one grandfather, Cuthbert Broome; and Roy himself—a lean, lively guy in flannels and a New College tie—was pushing off in the first punt.

As in his childhood, his demeanor and looks were the essence of Nevil. But to Broome's sharp eye, the last seemed to be subtly influenced by the spirit of the East—a contemplative stillness created by the conflict of opposing forces inside him. When he laughed and chatted, it disappeared. When he became quiet and lost touch with his surroundings, it returned.

It was exactly this hidden quality, so perfectly balanced, that intrigued the mind of the novelist, unlike the heart of the godfather. Which was the true Roy? Which would be the deciding factor at the crucial turning points of his life? To what heights would it elevate him—into what depths might it drag him—that glimmer from the timeless essence of things? Would India—and his youthful admiration of India—be a source of inspiration for him or a hindrance?

Broome hadn't spent much time with the boy, up close, since the New Year; and he didn't need glasses to see that something was brewing inside him. Roy was more chatty yet less open than usual, and Broome let him ramble, interpreting what was unsaid. He could pinpoint exactly when a casual question could either shatter confidence or inspire it. He sensed they were at one of those pivotal moments. He also had a feeling about one of his Indian cousins: both were charming, but still...

The question was still there: was it the girl or the boy?

The girl, Arúna—student at Somerville College—was lounging among large blue and pink cushions in the bow, thoughtfully twirling a Japanese parasol, one arm draped across the shoulders of her companion—a fellow student; fair, solid, and good-humored. Broome assessed her mentally: "Tactless but reliable. Anglo-Saxon to the last button on her off-the-rack Shantung coat and the rounded toe of her white suede shoe."

Arúna—in simple terms, Dawn—was striking in her own way. Not as beautiful as Lilámani, nor as fair-skinned; but what her face lacked in symmetry was made up for by her lively expressions, the interesting tilt of her nose and chin, and her large, dark brown eyes like velvet pansies. The shape of her face—its width, roundness, and slightly upward angle—gave her a pansy-like vibe. Over her casual summer dress in a shade of pink, she wore a lighter sari with gold flecks; and two strands of coral beads highlighted the deeper coral tone of her full lower lip. Not yet eighteen, she was studying "pedagogy" to help her less adventurous sisters in Jaipur.

Clearly a factor to consider, this creature of cheerful laughter and strong intentions; a woman to the very tips of her manicured nails. Yet Broome had not fully concluded that it was the girl——

After Desmond—Dyán Singh: each, in his own way, a brother to Roy's complex soul. Broome—without any narrow-mindedness—preferred the earlier influence. But Desmond had rushed like an arrow to the Border, where his oldest brother led their father's old regiment; and Dyán Singh—striking and passionate, young India at its finest—ruled in his place. The two were from the same college. Dyán, a year younger, looked older by at least a year. His face and body showed the Rajput mark of masculinity, with a sense of racial pride that bordered on arrogance; and the Rajput sign of sophistication—remarkably small hands and feet.

He was pushing the second boat along with less skill and confidence than Roy. His mind was clearly distracted by a vision of Tara among the cushions in the front; an arm linked through her mother’s, as if to defend herself against the suggestion of being older than anyone else, or at all out of it because of that small detail—something that was quietly acknowledged while being angrily denied; which was totally Tara.

Certainly, Lady Despard still looked incredibly young; she still radiated the lively charm she had passed on to her child. And Tara, at twenty, in a soft butter-colored dress with roses in her hat, was captivating enough to distract any young man from focusing on a punt pole. Full of energy, curiosity, and a spirit of adventure, she was remarkably free from the burden of self-consciousness; one of her most lovely traits—and rare enough to be noteworthy—was her chivalrous affection for the older generation. In Tara's eyes, girls who dismissed their mothers and tolerated their fathers were unacceptable. This quality was sure to make an impression on Roy's Rajput cousin; and Broome wondered if Helen realized the unsettling possibility; whether, despite her genuine love of the East, she would go along with it....

Only the other day, it felt like he and she had been sitting together among the rocks of the beloved old Cap, hearing Nevil's incredible news. She was the one who had supported his choice of a partner: and Lilámani had fully justified her support. But then—Lilámani was one in many thousands; and this situation would be the other way around:—Tara, the apple of their eye; Tara, with her wild-flower face and her fiery temperament——?

How intensely they pulled at his middle-aged heart, these casual and opinionated young people, with their craziness and obsessions, their dreams tied precariously to the stars; with their victories and setbacks and disappointments all in front of them; blissfully ignoring the help and advice offered by those who would struggle to support them if they could....

A sudden jolt in his lower back interrupted his overly Victorian thoughts. Dyán's punt was the culprit; and Dyán himself, gripping the pole that had let him down, was nearly thrown into the river.

His achievement was met with laughter and a sarcastic "Really impressive!" from Cuthbert Gordon—Broome's grandson. Roy, jolted from some lofty daydream of his own, exclaimed with authority: "Get it together, you ridiculous fool. 'Who are you pushing'?"

The Rajput's expression turned serious; but before he could respond, Tara had gotten to her feet and quickly walked over to him. Her fingers gripped the pole; and she smiled directly into his troubled eyes.

"Let me, please. I'm tired of being lazy and overly anxious. I can't let my Mom be drowned by anyone but me. I'd have to kill the other person, which would be uncomfortable—for both of us!"

"Miss Despard—there's no danger——" he murmured—unmoved by humor; and—as if by coincidence—one of his hands partially covered hers.

"Let go," she said quietly, just above a whisper, so that no one else could hear her; so firmly that Dyán's fingers released their grip as if they'd been burned.

"Now, don’t worry. Go take a seat," she said, in a more playful tone. "You’ve done your part. And you’re actually really grateful to me. But too proud to admit it!"

"Not too proud to follow your orders," he muttered.

She saw the words instead of hearing them; and he looked away, not daring to meet her gaze.

It all happened in a few seconds, but it left him buzzing with suppressed anger. He had embarrassed himself in front of her; he had probably revealed his secret to everyone at the party. After all, what did it matter? He couldn't have kept it hidden for much longer. Through the touch of hands and his bold words, he had practically admitted it to her...

As he got comfortable, her clear voice called out: "Wake up, Roy! Let's race to the backwater."

They sprinted to the backwater, and Tara won by half a length, to the cheers of the guys.

"Well, you see, I had to let you," Roy explained, as she confronted him, flushed with triumph. "It seemed unfair to leave you out. It's not like you were some crazy suffragette!"

"He who excuses himself—accuses himself!" she retorted. "Anyway—I'm the winner."

"You're right. That's just how girls are. No matter what path you choose, it's likely to be the wrong one."

"Hear the Cynic!" mocked young Cuthbert. "Did you turn forty on the 9th, or was it forty-five?"

Roy grinned. "Good old Cuthers! Don’t tire yourself out trying to be funny! Grab the drinks. We’ve earned them, haven’t we—High Tower Princess?" The last part was said just for Tara's ears.

And Dyán, noticing the smile in her eyes, felt jealousy stab him like a hot metal wire.

The dinner, prepared by Roy and Dyán, was no ordinary roadside meal, but a delicious spread: salmon mayonnaise, perfectly mixed; glazed chicken; strawberries and cream; fancy chocolate boxes; sparkling moselle—and soda siphons for those who preferred not to drink.

It was a lively meal: Roy, back down to earth, the look of the East gone from his face, was just Nevil again; even young Cuthbert, with his big build and tousled blonde hair, was a younger version of Broome. And the older man, watching them and joking around with them, felt youthful again for one carefree golden hour.

The boats were lined up next to each other, and everyone ate together, both English and Indian. There were no annoying caste rules here; no hint of superiority in the friendly attitude of the young people from Oxford. Nothing to disturb the sensitivity of young Indians—who often feel insulted where there's no intention of it; and too often, they experience displays of rude arrogance that can undo years of effort in a single moment.

Dyán sat next to Tara, anticipating her every need; his confidence soaring. Arúna, nestled in her cushions, playfully bantered with Roy. Surrounded by a group of friendly English girls at college, she quickly shed any shyness she had. Occasionally, when his gaze met hers, she would lower her eyes and secretly watch him; one moment admiring his masculine elegance, the next, boldly wondering: "Does he notice how I'm wearing my favorite sari—and how my coral beads make my lips look red?" And again: "Why do people keep talking about a divide between the East and the West?"

To that deep question, there was no answer in words; only in unspoken feelings that she chose to overlook. Both siblings had convinced themselves that talk of a divide was exaggerated by unfriendly forces. They, at least, having built their bridge, took its sturdiness for granted. As children of an emotional background, it was enough to realize that they loved the fresh, cool greenery of England, the easy-going and warm nature of her life and customs; the buzz of her lively, smoky, all-inclusively vibrant London; her endless books and art. Above everything, they cherished Oxford, where everyone felt like family—understanding the difference between their own college brothers and mere outsiders:—Oxford, at this specific hour of this particular June evening. And at that very moment, they cherished salmon mayonnaise and crushed strawberries just as much as any other delight of this wonderful land.

And down in the depths of their subconscious—unbothered by the ups and downs of surface feelings—ignited their fierce, unlogical love for India that any random breath could spark back to a flame.

Currently, as the sun sank towards the horizon, trees and fields glowed in a golden haze. Beams of gold streamed through alders and willows, turning simple leaves into discs of vibrant green light. Clouds of pollen sparkled like golden dust. In the nearby haze, midges flitted about; and, silhouetted against the brightness, swallows swooped and glided, letting out sharp calls in the joy of their evening flight.

On the two boats in the backwater, a deep calm settled in after the fun of their feast. Clouds of cigarette smoke kept the bugs away. In the growing silence, small sounds made themselves heard—buzzing of gnats, the cheerful songs of birds, bits of laughter and conversation from other groups in other boats, somewhere out of view....

Only Arúna didn’t smoke; and Emily Barnard, her die-hard fan, went with her to the bank, where they lazily pretended to "wash up." But Arúna's eyes would wander over to the reclining figure of Roy when she thought Emmie wasn’t watching. And Emmie—who could see perfectly without actually looking—wished he would sink to the bottom of the river.

Propped up on his elbow, he lay among Arúna's cushions, his senses awakened by the subtle scent of carnations she used, diving deep into his latest obsession—Rabindranath Tagore, the first of India's poet-saints to question the ethics of a reclusive life. When the mood struck him and the usual reservations faded away, he could unleash his passions, his protests, his ideas, in a compelling stream of words. And Arúna—absentmindedly wiping spoons and forks—listened, captivated. It felt like he wasn't really talking to anyone in particular; yet, more often than not, his gaze landed on Broome, as if he was indirectly sharing thoughts he hesitated to vocalize when they were alone.

A break in his speech created a moment of silence, allowing the surrounding peace and light to seep in like a rising tide. No one appreciated the haunting beauty of silence more than Roy; but tonight, his mind was filled with the sound of words—not his own.

"Just listen to this," he said, getting right to the point. His eyes looked distant; his voice lowered a notch.

"The night is mid-May; the breeze is a warm southern breeze."

"From my heart emerges and dances the image of my Desire."

"The shiny vision flashes by."

"I try to hold onto it tightly, but it slips away and misdirects me."

"I want what I can't have; I have what I don't want."

To that shining piece of truth and beauty, his audience gave the appropriate tribute of silence; and his gaze—coming back to reality—caught, in Tara's eyes, a reflection of his elevated mood. Dyán saw it too; and once again that red-hot wire pierced his heart.

It happened in an instant; and Roy was talking again—not to Tara, but to her mom.

"Is there any poet, from the East or West, who can really capture the essence of a mood so perfectly, hold it gently, like a fluttering bird, and then easily let it go?"

Lady Despard smiled in approval at the comparison. "In that one," she said, "he has captured more than just a mood—the very essence of life. Have you met him?"

"Yeah, once—after a lecture. We had a conversation—I’ll never forget it. There’s amazing content in the new volume. I know most of it by heart."

"Spare us, good Lord," mumbled Cuthbert—neither biased nor stubborn, but completely British. "If you start again, I'll hit back with Job and the Psalms!"

Roy shot back with the butt of a dead cigarette. It hit the offender right between the eyebrows, leaving a mark of warm ash to prove how spot on his aim was.

"Bull's eye!" Tara said quietly, and Roy, turning onto his elbow, called to Broome. "Jeffers, please take him out!" ("Jeffers" was a twist on G.F., short for Godfather).

Broome laughed. "I had a vague idea he was your candidate for the Indian Civil service!"

"He's meant to be. That's the scandal of it. He's generating a lot of interest among the people and the country he wants to govern."

"High art and cheap sentiment don't go together," Cuthbert shot back, giving Dyán Singh a wink.

That woke Lady Despard up. "Understanding and compassion must be part of the connection, unless England and India are going to completely drift apart. The Indian Civilian should be engaged early, like a sailor, and trained right where they are. Exams turn character into a secondary concern. You could almost say there’s no other concern in the Indian services."

Cuthbert nodded. "What a ridiculous situation, right? They just stuff us in here like Christmas turkeys. Efficiency is the battle cry these days."

"Too much efficiency," Dyán interjected, with a sparked eye. "It's already turning our historic cities into nightmares like Manchester and Birmingham, destroying the true essence of beauty and replacing it with the poison of money and the worship of luxury. And what do we get from it? Just as the West finally starts to recognize our genius in color and design—even starts to learn from it—we find it slipping through our fingers. Almost all the homes of the educated English resemble bad parodies of your villas—the absolute worst. Still, there are many on both sides who want to make life—not so ugly, to break away from the intense obsession with facts——"

"Hear, hear!" Broome cheered. "But I'm afraid, my dear boy, the Time Spirit wants to turn us all into tradespeople and politicians. Thank God, the essence of a culture lives in its books, philosophy, and art."

"Alright then," Roy said, "the clear solution is to connect the souls of both races more closely—through philosophy, art, and all that—right, Jeffers? That's what Dyán and I are aiming for—similar to that society Dad is part of."

Broome looked thoughtfully at each of them. "That's a big ask," he said.

"A beautiful vision!" said Lady Despard.

Roy leaned in eagerly towards her. "You don't look down on dreams, Aunt Helen."

"Neither do I, my son. Dreamers are our totally unpaid torchbearers. They light the way for us; and we whisper 'Poor fools!' with a hint of sneaky self-satisfaction when they fail."

"'I hope that won't happen to me!'" quoted Roy, encouraged by Lady Despard's approval. "Anyway, we're eager to fast-track the better understanding initiative—on the principle that Art brings people together and politics drives them apart."

"Very concise—and generally true! Can I suggest a solid principle for young people on the path to change? 'Freedom and courage in thought—obedience in action.' When I say obedience, I don't mean blind conformity. When I say freedom, I don't mean chaos. Only those who are bound are truly free."

"Jeffers, you're a genius! I’ll take that valuable insight! But what about democracy—Cuthers' favorite solution? Isn’t it leading to disobedience in action—rebellion; and enslavement in thought—everyone reared on the same slogans, stamped with the same seal?"

That woke up the long-suffering British Lion—in the form of Cuthbert Gordon.

"Curse you, Roy! This is a picnic, not some ridiculous Union debate. You can't argue for anything; and when you start rambling, you've really crossed the line. But two can play at that game!" He waved a half-empty lemonade bottle, threatening the handle with a very square thumb.

"Go ahead, my friend." Roy opened his mouth as an invitation. Cuthbert quickly pulled the trigger—and missed the target.

There was a small scream from Tara and the girls on the bank; then the competitors began to seriously deal with each other.

Dyán quickly lost interest when the conversation wasn't about India; and as the adults engaged in a side conversation, his gaze turned toward Tara. Her smile encouraged him to take a chance, so he leaned closer to her over the side of the boat. "Miss Despard," he whispered, "will you join me for a walk in the field?—Please."

She shook her head. "I'm too lazy! We've done enough exercise. Plus, we have to walk home."

Her refusal surprised him; but desire won out over pride. "You can't really call it exercise. Please come."

"Honestly—I'm tired," she said softly, turning her gaze from him to her mother.

It was Lady Despard's claim that she could listen to three conversations at once; but even Tara was taken aback when she casually reached out and patted her knee. "Smart kid. Best to stay quiet until we head home."

The hand wasn't pulled away. Tara placed her own hand over it and further frustrated the annoyed Dyán by saying, with her sweetest smile: "I'm really sorry. Please don't be upset."

Vexed! The lifeless word was an insult added to injury. All the pride and passion of his culture burned within him. Without acknowledging her smile or her request, he pulled away from her, stepped out of the boat, and went for a walk by himself.

While Broome and Lady Despard were worried about signs of a tough time for Roy, there was no one—except maybe Arúna—who cared about Dyán Singh's dilemma. He was a Rajput—half wild, half noble; an idealist at heart; a lover of both England and India; and now—passionately and completely—in love with Tara Despard, with her Indian name, pearl-white English skin, and the warm sunshine of England in her hair.

It is a dangerous time for young Indians abroad, who aren’t used to interacting freely with women outside their family; often, they carry the burden of a girl-wife waiting for them—something that's no longer a given in these modern times. In Dyán Singh's situation, he lacked that safeguard. With his mother gone, he had fought against a strictly traditional grandmother and insisted on putting off marriage until he finished his education. Gaining even more confidence, he asked for the same delay for Arúna; this was much more serious. They had spent months battling with words, tempers, and tears, facing off with Mátaji—the high priestess of the household—along with the family matchmaker and the family guru, whose wrath was something no one could afford to incur. Did he not have the power to bring the curse of the gods upon an entire household?

More than once, Arúna was pushed to the point of giving up; until her brother grew impatient and dismissed her as weak. But her experience had been tougher than his. For him, it was just moral pressure and threats of being cut off. For her, it was the ancient tactics of the Inside; forbidden by Sir Lakshman, but secretly used when her stubbornness called for extreme measures. So neither Dyán nor his grandfather had realized that Arúna had endured the torment of Tantalus for days—food placed in front of her, so cruelly spiced that even a tiny bite would blister her lips and tongue; water laced with salt; the 'fire-stick' used on her most sensitive spots; not to mention the more subtle torture of insults, threats, and nasty insinuations that filled her with shame and anger. A word to the men, warned Mátaji, and things would get worse. If men didn’t care about family honor, the women had to defend it in their own way. They were both doing their duty, as best as they could. Only knowing that Dyán was fighting her battle, as well as his own, kept her spirit unbroken, even when her body begged for relief at any cost...

All of this she had shared with him when they were finally safe on the big ship, with miles of rough water between them and the harsh rule of dastúr. That confession—with its unintentional glimpse of the Rajput spirit hiding in her laughter-loving heart—had brought them closer together and made Dyán feel guilty. It's no surprise that Oxford felt like a paradise of knowledge and friendly freedom to them. It's no wonder they thought they had, in one brave leap, crossed the divide between East and West.

At Bramleigh Beeches, Lilámani—who knew everything without saying a word—had welcomed them warmly, as had Lady Despard. It was here that Dyán met Tara, who had 'no interest' in colleges—and through a few vacation visits, the damage was done.

At first, he felt surprised, even a bit disheartened. His English education and delayed marriage hadn’t included any thought of possibly marrying an English woman. With the Indian Civil Service in mind, he had hoped to meet a girl student of his own background, someone educated enough to stay out of purdah and understand that a modern Indian husband might want companionship from his wife just as much as motherhood, devotion, and support.

And now ... this —!

Striding across the field, illuminated by the moon just starting to light up, he alternated between being angry at her subtle rejection and admiring her shy hesitation. As a Hindu and a well-bred man, his instinct was to go talk to her parents; but he had learned enough about modern youth to understand that English parents were not really relevant in these situations. Deep down, the primitive lover in him burned with desire. He wanted to kneel and adore her. At the same time, he just wanted to have her, whether she agreed or not...

And during clearer moments, uncertainty consumed him. What did her smiles and moments of sympathy really mean, her caring, cousinly behavior? What did Roy's cousinly kindness mean for Arúna? He realized that while they faced too many limitations in India, in England, the issue could come from having too much freedom. There would always be suffering for some reason. The gods would ensure that. But not through losing her—he silently begged them. Any way but that!

Everything depended on the walk home. Those two must have wrapped up their sparring match by now...

They had. Roy was on the shore, helping Arúna pack the basket; and Cuthbert had Tara—but not for long.

He was asked to kick the ball back; and at the boathouse, where a taxi took away the older folks and the picnic stuff, he attempted a pointless move to win back Tara and put the substantial Emily on Dyán. When that didn’t work, he comforted himself by staying connected with Arúna and Roy.

Dyán clearly hesitated to start and noticeably fell behind. Inexperienced and earnestly trying, he couldn't build up to his moment. He was painstakingly trying to find the right words when Tara disrupted him with a casual comment, teasing him about his slow pace.

"You would go for that walk; and you walked so briskly——!"

"Because my heart was on fire—aching, desperately!" he blurted out with such surprising intensity that she jumped back a step.

"Of course I knew—there would be challenges—so I have been waiting and hoping ..." A stupid lump in his throat triggered a sudden rush of self-consciousness. He threw out both hands. "Tara——!"

Instinctively, she pulled hers out of reach. A faint shiver ran through her. "No—no. I don't... I never have... If I've confused you, I'm really sorry."

"If you're sorry—give me hope," his voice, his eyes pleaded with her. "You get so close—then you pull away; it's like offering a thirsty person a cup of water they can't drink. Just give me a little time—a small chance——"

She shook her head. "Please believe me. I'm not the kind to waver. I really want to stay friends—because of Roy. But honestly, there's no point in hoping for anything more—ever."

Her genuine sincerity and the sweet seriousness of her face conveyed strong belief. And that strong belief transformed his passion into bitterness.

"Why not use—ever?" he shouted, frustrated by her emphasis on the word.

"I guess—because I understand my own thoughts."

"No. Because—I am Indian." His voice had changed and was rough. "We're all British subjects—oh yes—when it suits them! But the door is only opened—so far. If we dare to ask for the best, it gets slammed in our faces."

"Dyán Singh, if I've hurt you, it was completely unintentional. You know that. But now, on purpose, you’re hurting me." Her dignity and kindness, along with the fairness of her criticism, left him speechless; and she continued: "You forget, it’s the same with your own people. Aunt Lila was cast out—for good. With an English girl, that could never happen."

Too upset to argue, he thought back to the personal issue. "With you there wouldn't be any need. I would live completely like an Englishman——"

"Oh, stop!" she exclaimed desperately. "Don't start all over again——"

"Wake up, you two slackers," shouted Roy from the far corner of the road. "It's my job to keep the team together."

"Coming!" called Tara, and gave Dyán one last look of appeal. "I'm really sorry from the bottom of my heart. I can't say more."—And picking up the pace, she hurried ahead.

For a split second, he paused. A strong urge hit him to just walk away in the other direction. His deep love for them all had suddenly soured. But his pride wouldn't let him. He wouldn't want them to suspect he was hurt—not even Arúna....

He barely slept that night, and when morning came, it was not just Dyán Singh of New College who woke up. It was Dyán Singh, a Rajput, a Descendant of the Sun. But life’s silly routine had to continue as if nothing significant had happened.

That afternoon, he was going with Roy to an exclusive meeting in a drawing room. A man named Mr. Ramji Lal had been invited to present a paper on the revival of Indian arts and crafts. Dyán had been really looking forward to it, but now, feeling sore and miserable—completely lost and lacking direction—he felt completely out of sync with everything.

He would have been grateful to back out. Roy, however, must not find out the truth—Roy, who could be the obstacle himself. The suspicion hurt like a scorpion; though it eased his wounded pride a bit.

Embittered and hostile, he listened with only half of his attention to his fellow countryman's passionate plea for a revival of the true Swadeshi spirit in India; a revival of her own intrinsic artistic culture, her belief in the creative power of thoughts and ideas. That spirit—said the speaker—has no battle cries, no shouting in the marketplace. It's a way of viewing life. Its real origin and inspiration is found at home. Like a newly lit flame, it needs nurturing. Instead, it’s in danger of being extinguished by false Swadeshi—an imitation of the West; loud and political, demanding more factories, more councils; indifferent to true Indian traditions of art and life. It won’t buy goods from Birmingham and Manchester; but it will create Birmingham and Manchester in India. Ultimately, it’s the age-old question of whether a nation’s greatness arises from the power of people or machines...

For all this, Dyán had cared deeply twenty-four hours ago. Now it seemed like nothing more than a collection of nice words—'sounding brass and tinkling cymbals.'

Could the simple word of a woman really change a man's mind so quickly and dramatically? His natural masculinity took offense at that idea. Still, it gave in. He was too wounded in his pride and his passionate heart to think or feel rationally while the pain was still so raw. He was hardly moved even by the reference to Rajputana in Mr. Ramji Lal's conclusion.

"I ask you to think about this in conclusion—my dear and respected English friends—the words of an experienced admirer of India, who is also a son of England. He believed—and I agree—that 'the vibrant art of India, the enduring chivalry of Rajputana, and the living faith of the Hindus are the only three aspects that can help revive the national life of India—the India of the Hindus....'"

Very nice; definitely very true; but what’s the point—after all—of their endless chatter? By pushing out air from their lungs, did they move the mountains of difficulty even a tiny bit?

More conversation continued; tea and attention that would have flattered him yesterday. Today, it all went right over his head. These kind ladies were eager to pamper him like a little dog, forgetting that he was a man, with a man's heart and mind, looking for something beyond just carefully selected treats.

He had never been so grateful to escape that welcoming house, where he had pictured himself so happy...

They were out in the street again, walking back to New College: Roy—not yet aware of the change in him—was really into it all; talking a mile a minute. But Dyán's anxious heart spoke louder than his cousin's voice. And all the while he kept wondering obsessively—Was it Roy?

He couldn’t bring himself to ask directly. The answer would drive him crazy either way. And Goodness—or Badness—knew he was miserable enough: hurt, angry at Fate, at England, even at Tara—beautiful and out of reach! She had ruined everything: his relationship with her, with her family, with Roy. She had dampened his enthusiasm for their shared mission. Still, he would hold Roy to the India plan; there was just a chance—and it would take him away from her. He hated himself for even thinking it; but jealousy, in the East, is a burning fire....

Roy's monologue stopped suddenly. "It's your turn, buddy, I think!" he said. "You're quiet as a fish this afternoon. I noticed it in there—I thought you'd have a lot to say to Ramji Lal."

Dyán frowned. He couldn’t keep pretending with Roy for much longer.

"Those ladies did all the talking. They definitely would not have appreciated it if I had shared my true feelings,"—he paused and added deliberately—"that we are all banging our heads against brick walls."

"My friend——!" Roy looked on in genuine confusion. "What’s wrong? Is your liver acting up? Too much salmon mayo and cream?"

His light tone annoyed Dyán to the point of frustration. "Very likely," he shot back, a sneer hidden in his voice. "Lots of mayonnaise and cream for everyone. But when we dare to ask for something more substantial, we get 'No Indians need apply.'"

"But—my dear Dyán——!"

"Well—it's true. Let’s say I want to support that closer union we all talk about by marrying an English girl—what then?"

Up went Roy's eyebrows. "Are you looking for an English wife?"

"I’m bringing up a situation—that could happen easily." He spoke with a hint of irritation; and fearing he might give too much away, avoided the main point. "Would you marry an Indian girl?"

"I think so. If I really wanted to. But I'm not entirely sure if it's a good idea—in theory—to mix such different elements. And in your situation—hypothetical, I guess?"

Dyán's grunt revealed nothing and suggested nothing.

"Well—from what people say, an English wife out there could cause some complications if you get the 'Civil.'"

Dyán jumped up. "I'm not going to go for it. I've changed my mind."

"Wow! And you've been sweating this whole time."

Dyán's smile held a hint of bitterness.

"Well, you live and learn. I can use my knowledge effectively without pretending to be an Englishman. An Indian wife might bring just as much challenge. So, despite my enthusiasm, I’m stuck between two tough choices. My dad joined the Civil Service. He was ambitious. He did well. But there was no promotion and hardly any support, except from a very few people. I don’t think he was ever happy. I believe it took a toll on him. I was hoping that things might be better now. But I’m starting to realize—I might be wrong. It’s better to recognize that in time—"

Roy looked really upset. "Poor old Dyán. Maybe you’re right. I don’t know much about British India. But it does seem unfair—and bad policy—to hold back men like you."

"Yes. They might think about that more if they heard some of our firebrands. One came at me last week. He said the British have ten years left to survive. He claimed they could spark a revolution tomorrow if they had money—a mere five million! He was insisting that the Indian princes aren't loyal, despite all the talk and donations; that the Army will side with whoever pays the best. We who are loyal need some encouragement—some recognition. We're only human——!"

"Instead. But you won't back out of our little show, buddy. Just when I'm really excited—laying out my plans for India——"

He grabbed Dyán's upper arm and gave it a friendly shake.

"No, I'll stick with that. But are you sure you can handle it—with your team? If you back out, I swear, by the sin of the sack of Chitor, I'll join the terrible crowd learning to make bombs in Berlin."

At that—the most serious oath that a Rajput can swear—Roy looked taken aback. Then he laughed.

"'Commem' seems to have disagreed with you all the way! But I won’t be intimidated. Also—I won’t back down. I plan to start diplomatic talks with Jeffers tonight. Fancy dinner for two in my room. All his little weaknesses! He’d be a strong ally. Wish me luck."

Dyán wished him luck in a pretty half-hearted way, especially after how intense he had been just a moment ago. It was like all the passion had suddenly drained out of him.

They had just walked through the college gate, and a few yards ahead, they saw Lady Despard and Tara—the girl's hand linked through her mother's arm.

"Oh, I completely forgot," said Roy. "I mentioned they could take a look."

Roy's fancy little dinner turned out to be a total success. With sole and sautéed chicken, along with trifle and savory dishes, he silently made his case; all the while feeling a bit guilty for downplaying the childhood idol he admired and loved more and more. But this whole India thing was incredibly important, and the dear old guy would never suspect—

Roy watched him enjoying the chicken and peas, talking about the downfall of falling in love, why it happens, and how to fix it, and thought, for the hundredth time, what a great old guy he was—so big and relaxed, nothing nerdy or newspaper-like about him. Quite a masterpiece of design, thanks to Nature; his size and strength; the big head, with its patch of tawny-grey hair that receded along the sides of his forehead, creating angles; the nose, rugged and full of personality; the beard and the sea-blue eyes that gave him the sailor look Roy had loved as a child. Now he looked at it with a more critical eye, like an artist. A strong sculpture of his godfather was his acknowledged masterpiece so far in the sculpture department, which he preferred to painting or drawing. But above all, literature was his main interest: poetry, essays, and the often-mocked novel—the truest and most expressive way to connect one person to another and one culture to another: the most obvious way, Roy thought, to support the cause he cared about.

Though his mind was filled with one topic, he was wisely saving it for a more personal setting of port wine, coffee, and cigars. In the meantime, they always had plenty to discuss, these two. Broome held the unconventional belief that he had just as much to learn from the young as they did from him; right now, the question of whether Roy should seriously pursue literature was very much at the forefront.

Once or twice during a break, he noticed the clever blue eye watching him from beneath unruly brows; but each kept their thoughts to themselves until the scout had gotten rid of all the extras. Then Broome picked a cigar, smelled it, and cut off the end.

"My particular weakness!" he said thoughtfully as Roy poured him a drink. "What a considerate godson! And after this interesting setup—what about the main story? India?"

Under a gaze as direct as the question, Roy turned bright red. The 'dear old boy' had done more than just suspect; he had completely seen through the whole situation—the humiliation that youth can least tolerate.

At the sight of his sad face, Broome burst out laughing. "Cheer up, man! Don't hold it against me for a bit of the smarts I rely on. Weren't you trying to give me a hint yesterday?"

Roy nodded, feeling a bit better. But his confidence faded after the shaky beginning. "What about armchairs?" he suggested hesitantly, clearly focused on his cigarette.

They took away their coffee cups and sipped quietly a couple of times. "I'm waiting," Broome said, his tone encouraging.

But Roy still hesitated. "You see——" he said cautiously, "I'm really eager, but I feel shy about talking too much. It might come off as just silly sentimentality."

Broome's sailor eyes sparkled. "You compliment me, my son, by treating me like I'm just another undergrad! It's only the teens and twenties of this brand-new century that are so scared of sentiment—the key ingredient for human happiness. If you didn't have a strong feeling for India, you wouldn't be worthy of your mother. You want to go out there—is that the issue?"

"Yeah. With Dyán."

"In what role?"

"A lover and a learner. Also—by the way—a budding author. I was hoping you could support me with a few assignments for my initial work."

"You chose your godfather with perfect judgment! And now that the formalities are done—are we looking at a book, or books, as the goal?"

"Yes—and other things. Whatever anyone can do—in a small way—to inspire a friendlier feeling all around; a clearer understanding that the fates of England and India are interconnected. I'm sure those damn politics are to blame for most of the tension. It's art and literature, the emotional and spiritual forces that bring people together, right, Jeffers? You know that——"

He leaned forward, getting into his topic; the awkward beginning forgotten; his shyness gone...

And once it started, no one was more skilled than Broome at drawing him out into a deeper, more unguarded self-revelation. He understood well that, on this topic and many others, Roy could express himself more freely to him than to his father. That's just how youth is. In his view, it was great that Roy wanted to use his dual heritage for the noble purpose of interpreting East to West and West to East—especially because he would likely learn much more than he could teach. It was during his journey to understand India better that the hidden danger began to show itself. But there had to be an outlet for the Eastern spirit within him; and his early attempts clearly indicated a talent for literary expression, if Broome knew anything about creativity. As a passionate supporter of literature, he agreed with Lafcadio Hearne that "a man may do quite as great a service to his country by writing a book as by winning a battle"; and he shared just enough of these ideas with Roy, who visibly lit up in response to the last statement.

"Priceless old Jeffers! I knew I could count on you to support me—and lift my spirits! Of course, the practical crowd—Aunt Jane and her friends—will really get you down with their comments like, 'Why waste your time writing silly novels?' And if you try to explain that novels actually have a purpose, they just think you've got a big ego."

"Don't worry about it, Roy. 'The quest is a noble one and the hope is high.' And we writers have our wonderful rewards. As for Aunt Jane——" He looked directly at her nephew—and winked intentionally.

"Oh, of course—she's the unlimited limit," Roy said without any shame. "I guess if Dad acts up, she'll really let him have it?"

"Good measure, packed down. By the way, have you talked to him yet about all this——?"

"No. Mom probably suspects. But you're the first. I made sure you'd understand——"

"Are you doubting Father?"

"M-yeah. I'm not really sure why."

Broome was quiet for a moment. "After all—it's natural. Imagine being in his shoes, Roy. He watches India becoming a bigger part of your life each year. He knows you have a lot of your mother and grandfather in you. He might be worried that the pull of India will be too strong up close. And I think he's jealous—of England. He'd prefer to see your heart focused on Bramleigh Beeches, and I’m pretty sure they both want to keep you closer to home."

Roy looked upset. "Tough situation. I hadn't gotten to that yet. But it wouldn't last forever. And—there are George and Jerry growing up."

"I understand that George and Jerry are not exactly—Roy——"

"Jeffers—you old rascal! I can't kid myself——!"

"Don't be so obviously British, Roy! You can give yourself a pat on the back—you know it just as well as I do!"

"I know it's rude to go against my elders!" Roy replied, reaching for his pipe and pouch.

"Especially helpful godfathers, with connections in the media?"

Roy faced him directly, a hint of laughter in his eyes. "Are you going to be convenient—that's the issue! Will you give Dad the impression that I might become something good once I gather some bits of knowledge——?"

Broome leaned forward and put a big reassuring hand on his knee. "Trust me to make it happen, old man—if Mother gives her okay. We can't go against her wishes—either of us."

"No—we couldn't." There was a new seriousness in Roy's voice. "Like I said, she probably knows all about it. That's just how she is. She understands what you're thinking long before." He said the last part in a softer tone, his eyes fixed on her portrait above the mantelpiece: the one in the studio window seat.

And Broome thought: "With all his intelligence, the guy's hardly awake yet; and the kid's still in love with her. This idea might be an unconscious way to express himself. A good one—if Nevil can be made to view it that way."

After a noticeable pause, he said softly, "Remember, Roy, just because she's one of a kind, it doesn't mean she represents everyone. She naturally symbolizes India in your mind. But no country can produce people like her in large numbers—"

"I guess not." Roy hesitantly looked away. "But she embodies the best of the Indian spirit: the spirit that people here could make more effort to understand."

"And I have to say, you’re really well-suited to help them, if Dad's okay with covering your travel expenses. It's a deal between us. The setup for your great dinner won’t have been for nothing!"

They sat together for over an hour. Then Broome left, leaving Roy to daydream—in a blue haze of tobacco smoke—the self-absorbed, opal-colored fantasies of being twenty-one.

And tonight, one dream overshadowed them all.

For years, the idea had been inside him like a seed in darkness—growing alongside him. Every experience and impression that impacted him helped to nourish it: his mother's early support; her stories about Rajputana; his friendships with Desmond and Dyán; and, not least, his father's Ramayána paintings in the long gallery at home, which had captured his imagination when he was very young, appealing simply to his natural sense of color, and the repeated wonder and beauty of his mother's face in those poignant moments from the story of Sita—India's epitome of womanhood....

Then there was the vivid memory of a room in his grandfather's house; the dignified old man, with his deep voice, saying things he only came to understand years later; and the expression in his mother's eyes, as she silently clapped her hands in the youthful way he adored....

And Chandranath—another look at India; the ugly side... And stories from Tod's 'Rajasthan'—that harsh and captivating view of romance and knighthood, of cruelty and cleverness; brutal killings and acts of extraordinary devotion...

Barbaric; completely unfamiliar to the life he had known, those stories of ancient India oddly stirred within him a faint, exciting sense of recognition... He knew...! He was certain about the spirit that drove them all, when Akbar's armies crashed wave after wave against the formidable rock fortress of Chitor—renowned capital of Mewar, attacked three times by Islam and abandoned by its royal family; leaving only the echo of its glory—a testament, a defiance, an inspiration....

Sometimes he dreamed it all, with incredible clarity. And in those dreams, there was always the sense that he knew ... It was a really strange, really thrilling feeling. He had only talked about it with his mother and Tara; except once at Marlborough, when he felt compelled to see if Lance would get it.

Priceless old Desmond! It was so hard to see his face—curious, doubtful, slightly worried—when he realized it wasn’t some kind of joke. To put his mind at ease, Roy admitted it was a family quirk. When things went awry, his mother usually had an inkling: and sometimes she reached out to him in dreams that weren’t exactly dreams. What’s the harm?

Desmond, confused and doubtful, wasn't ready to take a guess. If Roy was born like that, then he obviously couldn't change it. And Roy, somewhat offended, had insisted he wouldn’t want to be any other way for anything in the world...

To-night, through some strange flash of memory, it all came back to him in the dreamlike haze of tobacco smoke. And there, on his desk, was a full-length photograph of Lance in his Punjab cavalry uniform. Serving on the Indian Border, shining in his own impressive way, he was clearly in his element; attached to his father's old regiment, with Paul as second-in-command; proud of his strong Sikhs and Pathans; watched over, respected, and implicitly obeyed by the sons of men who had served with his father—men for whom the name Desmond was a symbol of strength. That's just how things are in India.

And here was Roy, still up to his old habit of writing poems and dreaming big. For a brief moment, Desmond was out of the picture, but when the time was right, he'd be back. The bond between them was unbreakable—fundamental. Poet and Warrior; the eternal counterparts. In the Rig Veda[2] both are one; both Agni Kula—'born of fire'; neither one could fully experience life without the other.

The years that Desmond ruled were the best. They left school together when Roy was seventeen, and at that moment, their separation felt like the end of everything. However, not long after, he found himself immersed in new joys—a year of travel through Italy, Greece, the Mediterranean, with his parents and Christine——

And now, here he was, approaching the end of his time in Oxford—shaped by Dyán and India; and, of course, by Oxford herself, who counts her admirers in the millions; holds them for three or four years and leaves a lasting impression on their minds and hearts. Despite all his daydreaming and writing, he had played hard and studied hard. While preparing for Greats, he had absorbed a lot from the classics; explored a wide range of later literature from both the East and West; won the Newcastle scholarship, and filled a leather-bound book—his mother's gift—with poems and prose sketches, some of which had been published in the more selective weeklies. He had also learned Hindustani from Dyán and was looking forward to tackling Sanskrit. In the Exams, he had received a First in Mods; and, with a bit of luck, hoped for a First in the Finals. Once again, saying goodbye would be tough, but India shone like a star on the horizon; and he was determined to make that time the best of all....

What novels he would write! Not modern impressionist stuff; not gritty streets and the photographic touch. No—his adventurous spirit, with its hint of Eastern mysticism, craved color and warmth and light;—not just the surface of romance, but the essence that gives a deeper sense of the significance and mystery of life; that dives into the very core of personality, the hidden yet essential world of spiritual adventure ... Pain and conflict; forces of evil, doubt, and indecision:—he couldn't avoid these. But in any imaginative work he attempted, beauty had to be the main theme—if only as a star in the darkness. And nowadays beauty had become almost questionable. Cleverness, cynicism, sex, and sensation—all had their followers and their trends. Pure Beauty, like Cinderella, was left sitting among the ashes of the past; and Roy—prince or not—was her devoted admirer.

To the son of Nevil and Lilámani, her clear call never felt like a strict trap of the flesh or a trick of the senses; instead, it felt like a gift of the spirit, the joy of things appreciated without self-interest: the visible proof that love, not power, is the ultimate truth of Creation. Fortunately for him, its outward form and inner essence had been his daily experience ever since he first truly saw his mother’s face and genuinely enjoyed his father's art. Those two lived it, and a life lived surpasses any debate.

At this uplifting moment—no matter what might happen later—he appreciated them for his dual heritage; for the perfect harmony between them that fueled his hope for ultimate unity between England and India, despite the barriers, complexities, and instigators of conflict; a unity that couldn't come from hidden superiority or mindless imitation. His closeness with Dyán and his mother had made that very clear. Each must genuinely want to understand the other; each holding on to their individuality while respecting in the other those puzzling qualities that strengthen their bond and are essential to the well-being of both. He instinctively envisioned them as a man and a woman; and on the surface, the analogy seemed to work. He still had to realize that analogies can often be misleading things; especially in this instance, since India is many, not one. Still, there was a kernel of truth in his budding idea: and he was at an age when ideas and strong impulses course through the blood like sap in the spring; an age to be a reformer, a fanatic, or a hedonist.

Too often, unfortunately, before the years bring the ability to adapt, the lively spark of enthusiasm is gone....

To night it burned in Roy with a steady flame. If only he could get his father excited——!

He figured he would go anyway: but he didn't have the rebellious spirit of modern youth. He wanted to share and reveal his hidden treasure; not debate it to death. And his father seemed to quietly discourage enthusiasm about Indian literature and art. You couldn't say he wasn't interested; he just felt a little unresponsive to his son's excitement, which made Roy never feel completely comfortable discussing it. If only he could walk into the room right now, while Roy's mind was buzzing with it all, riding the high of a wave....

Roy, after thinking it over, decided that he would talk to his father first—the one uncertain factor in their family. But old habits and the moment's feelings were too powerful when his mother came to "tuck him in," just like she always had since he was a little kid.

Seated on the edge of his bed, in the soft light, she looked like a rare, pale moth in her moon-colored sari, accented and edged with gold; amber earrings and a strand of amber beads—his own gift; the first results of his poetic earnings. The years that had passed had simply matured and enhanced her; softened the shape of her cheek a bit; added a sense of dignity to her graceful presence and deepened her emotional wisdom.

It was just as he thought. She had picked up on his feelings long ago. He reached out his hand—a nice, tense hand—and placed it on her knee.

"You're amazing. I think you know that."

"I believe—I do," she replied, resting her hand on his; occasionally moving her fingers in a light, affectionate gesture—her special way of showing warmth. "Are you wanting to go out there?"

"Yes, I really must. You get it?"

She tilted her head and, for a moment, closed her eyes. "I am proud. But you can't understand how hard it is ... for us ... to let you go. And Dad..."

She took a break.

"You think he’ll hate it—want to keep me here?"

"My darling—'hate' is too strong. He really cares about everything that builds friendship between England and India. But—is it any wonder if he cares more about his own son? You'll talk to him soon?"

"Tomorrow. Unless—a word or two, first, from you——"

"No, not that!" She smiled at his youthful belief in her. "It's better to keep me outside. You see—I am India. So I’m already too involved that way."

"You’re completely immersed in this!" he exclaimed passionately. And—now that his tongue was free—he shared with her a load of his bottled-up emotions; how they had motivated him—she and his dad; how he genuinely hoped they would support him; and a lot more that was just for her to hear....

Her incredible ability to listen, her expressive silence and gentle moments of humor, her occasional touch—all provided comfort to him in his charged mood.

Were there ever two people so perfectly in sync?

Could he really leave her? Could he handle the final heartbreak?

When she finally leaned down to kiss him, the subtle scent of sandalwood stirred a hundred memories; and he held her close for a long time, her cheek resting against his hair.

"Bad boy! Let me go," she pleaded; and, with remarkable compliance, he unclasped his hands.

"See if you can go now!"

It was his old childish game. The moment she moved, his hands were locked again.

"My dear son—I have to!"

"One more kiss then—for good luck!"

So she kissed him for good luck and left him to his late-night browsing...

Next morning, she sat on her cushions in the studio, pretending to read a long letter from her father. In reality, her thoughts were focused on Nevil, who stood at his easel, absorbed in scattered sketches for a new painting—flowing fabrics and a man's face skillfully foreshortened.

Though he was nearing fifty, he looked more like thirty-five; his face was remarkably free of lines, and his fair hair hardly showed any grey. To her, he seemed perennially young and more dear than ever—if that was even possible—as the years enriched and deepened the love they had boldly staked everything on. Yet, despite her talent for reading people, she couldn't predict exactly how he would react to what Roy had to say, nor whether Roy would express it just right. With Nevil, so much depended on that.

Till this morning, she had hardly realized how subtly she had been their connection in all the challenging or sensitive issues where they didn’t quite align. But now, since Roy was a man, they had to figure things out in their own way....

At the first distant sound of his footsteps on the stairs, she got up, walked over to the easel, and stood there for a few moments—always captivated by the fast, confident strokes.

"Good, right?" he said, smiling into her serious eyes.

She nodded. "It's pretty clear—you’re in the mood!" Her fingers gently brushed the back of his hand. "I'll come back later. So many vases waiting for me in the living room!"

As Roy walked in, she brushed past him and they shared a smile. Her eyes, silently encouraging him, seemed to urge him not to let his excited words overtake him. Then she left, leaving the two who were her entire world together.

Down in the living room, roses and sweet peas, cut by Christine—her fairy daughter—were ready to enjoy. Together, they filled the spacious room with a lovely fragrance and beautiful colors. Then Christine rushed to her beloved piano, while Lilámani wandered off to her equally cherished rose garden. Her body and mind were restless. She couldn't focus on anything until she found out what had happened between Nevil and Roy. His boyish secrets and admiration from the night before had made her feel overwhelmed with emotions. She felt happy and proud that her firstborn was dedicated to the noble goal of fostering deeper understanding between his father's great country and her own people during this time of dangerous conflict and unrest.

But underneath her pride and happiness, there was a worry that the balance she had tried to maintain might be tipping the wrong way. Duty to his father's family was the most important thing. A strong inclination towards India—no matter how noble the reason—would still be a shift in the wrong direction. She had noticed that same worry hidden in Nevil's heart as well; and now, she could clearly sense the reason for the hidden issue that puzzled Roy. Nevil was afraid that—if Roy went to India—history might repeat itself. She acknowledged that the danger was real; and she understood that his fear reflected nothing about her or her country. Most importantly, she knew that—because of his unwavering loyalty that had always supported her—he wouldn't bring it up, even to his son.

Clearly then, if Roy was determined to go to India, and if someone needed to say a word of warning to calm Nevil's thoughts, only one person in the world could do it—herself. Despite her delicate nature, she couldn't, at this crucial moment, stay on the sidelines. She was "in it"—as Roy dramatically told her—up to the hilt....

Time went by—and he still wasn’t there. Worrying, she made her way back toward the house; she spotted him, feeling lonely and lost in thought, pacing the lawn: he stopped near the two large beech trees that shaded a hammock, chairs, and rugs—then he went inside. That’s when she realized her moment had arrived....

She found him lying in the hammock: not even smoking, just staring up into the cool green canopy, marked by the graceful twists of trunks and branches. One lightly clenched hand hung over the edge. His posture and distant look conveyed a sense of sluggish sadness that deeply affected her.

He jumped when he saw her. "Blessed little Mommy—can't hide from you!"

He reached out his left hand. She took it and pressed it to her cheek: a way of showing affection that was uniquely hers.

"Were you trying to hide? I was waiting among the roses to show you the new sweet peas."

"And I never showed up. What a mess I am! And lying here——" He swung his long legs over the side and stood up, tall and straight—taller than Nevil—smiling down at her. "I wasn't really hiding. I was just avoiding things—a little. But now that you've found me, you won't get away!"

Pressing down the edge of the hammock, he partially lifted her into it and positioned her among the cushions, skillfully tucking in her silk and muslin.

"Comfy?" he asked, looking her over, with Nevil's own smile in his eyes.

"Comfy," she sighed, wishing for subtle warnings at the bottom of the sea. Just to be foolish with him—the joy of it! To sync up with his moods, his passions, his silliness—she couldn't ask for anything more from life when he came home. "Very clever, Sonling. But no,"—she raised a finger—"that's not going to work. You're twenty-one. Too old for that little name now. So far away up there!"

"If I shot up as high as a lamp post, my heart would still be down there—at your feet."

He said it casually—that was the Englishman. But he said it—that was the Rajput. And she didn't know which one she loved more. It's odd to love two such different people with the same intensity.

She blew him a kiss from her fingertips. "Alright. We won’t be unkind to the little guy and throw him away. But now, please sit—Sonling. Have you and Dad been talking? No decisions? Doesn’t he want you to—work for India?"

"Mom, I don't know." He pulled up a chair and sat down facing her. "He insists that I'm totally free to break the rules, that he's not the kind of dad who 'shouts orders from the family rug!'"

Lilámani smiled warmly at that familiar gesture, but she didn’t say anything. Roy continued, “Still, I got the impression that he really doesn’t want me going out there. So—what the hell am I supposed to do? He kept mentioning that I’m still young and there’s no rush—but I sense there’s something else he’s not saying.”

He paused—and she couldn’t wait any longer.

"Yes, Roy—there’s something else—"

"Then why can't he speak?"

"Don't be so impatient," she chided him softly. "It's because he so beautifully stays—my lover, he can't find the words—any thought that might give——" She extended an appealing hand. "Oh, Roy—can you not guess the trouble? He is afraid—about your marriage——"

"My marriage!" It was clear he did not yet grasp the truth. "Honestly, Mum, that's a bit soon. I'm not even considering marriage."

"No, you fool! But out there, you might start to feel that way! No one can predict when Kama, the god of love, will blind someone with his magic. You could run into other relatives—like Arúna, and that would lead to problems, because"—she looked at him firmly and he noticed the faint blush rising in her cheeks—"that kind of marriage—for you—just can’t happen."

Now he got it; and despite her strong determination, she felt a rush of excitement at the quick flash of anger in his eyes.

"Who says it can't be?" he asked, a bit heated. "Aunt Jane—what a pain! When I do get married, it will be to make myself happy—not her!"

"Oh, be quiet, Roy—and listen! You’re running away too fast. It’s not Aunt Jane—it’s me who is saying you must not, because I know—the tough thought in Dad's heart. And I know it’s the right thing——"

"Why is it fair?" He was frustrated again. Stubborn—but how charming!—"Why can't I have the same luck he did—if it comes my way? I've never met a girl or woman who can compare to you in terms of overall beauty. And it's the East that gives you—inside and out—a quality, a glow—indescribable—like moonlight——"

"But, my love! You make me blush!" She pulled her sari across her face, hiding, behind a veil of lightness, her happiness at his candid praise.

"Well, you made me say it. And I'm not being sentimental. I'm stating a fact!"

His intensity guaranteed that. He gently pulled back the sari and looked deeply into her eyes.

"Why should we only share the unpleasant stories, like Aunt Jane's? Anyway, I've just shared my most honest one—and I'm not embarrassed about it."

"No need. It’s a gem I will keep in my heart."

She let go of her light-heartedness and met his honesty with her own, just as he deserved. "But—Ancient one, have you seen so many girls and women in your long life——?"

"I've come across a pretty good mix of all kinds—Oxford, London, and around here," he said confidently. "And I've been paying attention. Sure, most of them are cheerful and straightforward. Good guys, really; speaking our slang; playing our games. No harm in that, of course. But it takes away the magic of contrast—the real magic. They get that in India better than we do here."

The truth of that last Lilámani could not deny. Too clearly she saw in the violent upheaval of Western womanhood the hidden seeds of tragedy, for women themselves, for the race.

"You’re right, Roy," she said, smiling at his serious face. "From our Hindu perspective, the greatest richness of life comes from the biggest differences between men and women. This is especially true in Rajputana. But over here..." She sighed, a small, trembling sigh. The confusion and pain of it ran deep for her. "All this screaming and fighting for the wrong things hurts my heart because—I am a woman and they are women—disrespecting what in us is a symbol of God. Nature created women to nurture Life and Love. Don’t they believe, or care, that by trying to copy men (while claiming to despise them!) they are losing their own unique, beautiful differences, which are so essential for happiness—for our race? But marriage in the West seems more about the convenience of lovers than for the future of the race—"

"Yet your son, even though he is from the West—must not think about his own preferences or convenience——"

"My son," she said, gently but firmly, "because he is also from the East, must think about this issue of race; he must try to see it from his father's perspective."

"Still, making such a big deal about it feels like an insult—to you——"

"No, Roy. Not to say that——" The spark in her eyes, almost fury, surprised and impressed him more than anything she could say. "No idea that ever crossed your father's mind could be—like an insult to me. Oh, my dear, don't you realize that for an established English family like his, with deep roots in English history, it's not ideal for mixed heritage to happen twice in two generations? To you—our kind of marriage seems simple. You only see how close we are now, in love and understanding. You can't fathom all the challenges we faced before. We know them—and we're proud, because they've become like dust under our feet. Only to you—Dilkusha, I could share ... a little, if you want—to help you understand."

"Please tell me," he said, gripping her hand.

So, leaning back on her cushions—speaking very simply in the soft voice that was music to his ears—she told....

The story—brief but vivid—lasted less than half an hour. But in that half-hour, Roy captured a precious memory that time would not fade. The exact words would stay with him...

For Lilámani—lost in thought while walking through the Garden of Remembrance—uncovered more about the man she loved and her own fiery, passionate spirit, the refined essence of an Eastern woman at her finest.

Yet despite that revealing—or rather because of it—rebellion stirred up again. And, almost as if she could read his mind, she suddenly raised her hand. "Now, Roy, you have to promise. That way, I can talk to Dad and put his mind at ease."

Seizing her hand, he kissed it passionately.

"Sweetheart—after everything that’s happened, a simple promise would be a foolish extra. If you say 'No Indian wife,' that’s enough for me. I guess I should be satisfied with the great privilege of having an Indian mother."

Her glowing surprise was a wonderful sight to behold. Leaning in, she held his head in her hands and kissed him between his eyebrows where the caste-mark would be.

"Is it really October already?" she asked.

He told her about Dyán, and she sighed. "Poor Dyán! I wonder? It's so difficult—even with the best intentions—mixing English education and Indian life. I hope it won't cause any trouble for those two——"

Then they started, almost like lovers; the drooping branches rustled as Tara stood before them—a true vision of June. She wore a straight dress in Delphinium blue, with a shell-pink rose in her hat and another one in her waist-belt. Canvas shoes and a tennis racket revealed her hidden plan with Roy.

"Am I desperately unnecessary?" she asked, smiling at each of them.

"Way too desperately," Roy assured her with emphasis.

She wrinkled her nose at him, as much as her delicate, pointed nose would allow. "Speak for yourself, spoiled brat!"

But she offered him her left hand, which he held onto, while she leaned over the hammock and kissed Lilámani on both cheeks. Then she stood up and softly pulled her hand away.

"Christine is the one to blame. She figured you would be here. I came over hoping to play some tennis. It's just perfect. Not too hot."

"Even better in here, just lounging with Mom," said clumsy Roy.

"I disown you, I'm embarrassed!" Lilámani scolded him, only half-joking. "No more slacking off now. I'm done with you. You just have to get me out of this."

They helped her out, took care of her and joked around with her; then they went off together for Roy's racket.

She stood in the bright sunlight, watching them until they turned the corner of the house. It's not surprising that Nevil said, "No hurry!" If only he would wait...! He was still too young, too infatuated with India—and with her. Yet, if he had already started writing sonnets, even about her most charming feature, her stubborn heart would probably feel the sting of jealousy—just like in Desmond's time.

Instead, she suddenly recognized the first sneaky sting of middle age; felt dazed, for just a moment, by the effortless glow of their youth; something they took for granted: but for those who sense it relentlessly slipping away from them ...

Her small, delicate hands clenched unconsciously in response to her thoughts. She was nearing forty. In her own country, she would be considered almost an old woman. But something about the air and lifestyle in this cool, green England seemed to fend off age: and there still burned within her a youthful spirit—not so easy, even for the Arch-Thief to take away....

And while Lilámani talked things over with the son—whose dual nature they had themselves given and encouraged—Nevil was walking around his sanctuary of all the harmonies, both his heart and mind unsettled, as they hadn't been for years.

Out of the turbulent waters of family conflict and careful adjustments, this adventurous couple had found a haven of peace and mutual understanding. And now, look, a new sign of trouble is emerging from the dual pressure on Roy—the center of their life and love.

Turning as he walked, he caught sight of a portrait of his father, Sir George Sinclair: a straightforward, rough, and unimaginative face. Yet, all of a sudden, it grabbed his attention. He paused to look at it, feeling a sudden wave of sympathy for the kind old man. He recognized himself—the "damned unsatisfactory son," artsy and lacking direction, openly at odds with the Sinclair legacy—now standing, in some ways, in that father's role; his heart focused on the old place and on the boy he was meant to look after. The irony made him smile ruefully. By fixating too much on Roy and secretly fearing the obsession with India, he could imagine what his father must have gone through, suffering even more because he was blind to any perspective but his own. And there was Roy—like him in his twenties, but so much more driven!—drawn irresistibly by the call of the horizon; a call filled with dangers all the more insidious since they came from his own blood.

Yet a word of warning, spoken at the wrong time and in the wrong tone, could be completely misunderstood; and the annoying feeling of being solely responsible for his own problems only added to his irritation. All ability to focus on work had been shattered by that frustratingly distracted son of his, with his heart in India and his head in the clouds....

Weary of pacing, he took out his pipe and sat down in the window seat to fill it. He was interrupted by the sound of a familiar footstep; and the reaction from his entire being confirmed Lilámani's confidence that his hidden trouble didn't reflect at all on her. Lilámani and irritation simply couldn't exist together in him; and he was on his feet when she opened the door.

She didn't step forward right away. Shutting it with both hands, she stood there—a question in her eyes. It brought back, with a bittersweet feeling, the earlier days of respectful distance, when she would only come close to her lord if specially invited.

That she might understand what he was thinking, he opened his arms. "Come on—English wife!"

It had been their secret password. But her small teeth trapped her lip.

"No—King of me—Indian wife: causing too much trouble again!"

"Lilámani! How could you! Come here."

His attempt at being stern worked. In one quick rush—her sari blowing backward—she came: and he, feeling guilty, held her tightly; while she clung to him in silent, passionate reply.

"Beloved," she whispered. "Don’t worry anymore in your secret heart. I told him—he understands."

"Roy——? My love! But what——?" His confusion was a blatant sign of relief. "You couldn't—you haven't told him——?"

"Nevil, I have told him everything. I recently noticed this trouble in your thoughts, and today it occurred to me that only I could speak—could give the command that—one type of marriage must not be."

He pulled her in closer, and she held back a small sigh.

"Wasn’t the kid angry?"

"Only at first—because of me. He is—so very sweet, so devoted—his silly little Mom."

"A weakness he shares with his father," Nevil assured her, and in that whispered confession, she got her reward. Because after twenty-three years of marriage, the hint of romantic flair is as rare as hearing a cuckoo in July.

"Sit down, little woman." He pulled her down to the window seat, keeping his arm around her. "It's such a relief to know I can talk about everything with you openly. Where would Roy and I be without our interpreter? And she does it all without even knowing it; like a Brownie. I’ve been worrying a lot lately. The boy is completely obsessed with his ridiculous idea. There's no reasoning with him; and the modern dad doesn’t dare to give orders! It's too risky for his position! Yet we can see the hidden dangers much clearer than he can. Wouldn't it be smarter to gently hold him back before he gets into an environment where all the influences will drag him in one direction?"

It was the rational masculine wisdom of the West. But hers—that was feminine and from the East—ran deeper.

"Maybe it’s a mother’s weakness," she said, leaning against him and glancing away at a purple cloud hanging low over the moor. "But it seems to me that by holding him back, you’re only protecting his body from those influences. They would pull even harder on his soul. He wouldn’t be healthy and alive with the joy of action, but cramped and aching, like your legs when there’s no space to stretch them. Then impatience would set in, drawing his heart more toward India and further away from you. Father experienced that kind of frustration when he was young—so I know. My dearest, am I being too foolish?"

"You are my smartest of smart. Is there more?"

"Yes. It is this. Maybe, because he’s young and eager, he will make mistakes; stray too far. But even if he strays to the farthest end, not all influences will pull him in one direction. He will carry in his heart the star of you and the star of me. These will shine even brighter if he understands how much we wanted—to keep him here for ourselves; yet, for his own sake, we let him go. I have always remembered one line of poetry you showed me at Como. 'To take by leaving, To hold by letting go.' That is a true truth for many things. But for parents, it is the truest of all."

High praise indeed! It's nice to hear; tough to put into action. Nevil Sinclair—aware they would follow through—let out an involuntary sigh and held the gentle, adoring woman closer, whose spirit soared far above his own.

"Lilámani—you've won," he said, after a noticeable pause. "You deserve to win—and Roy will bless you. It's the special privilege of mothers, I guess, to bring the moon down from the sky for their sons."

"Sometimes, by doing that, they almost break their hearts," she replied softly.

He bent down and kissed her. "Keep yours safe—for me. I’ll need it." Her fingers tightened around his—"England will feel kind of empty—without Roy. Is he really set on going this fall?"

"Yes—I’m scared. A bit because of youthful impatience. A bit because he’s worried about Dyán; and he has a lot of influence. There are so many people in India caught in between."

Nevil sighed again. "Bless the boy! It's a definite risk. And who knows what the family will think of our Midsummer craziness! Jane is sure to cause a huge fuss. And we can't even ease the situation by telling her about our private precaution——"

"No—not a single word."

Lilámani sat up straight, a spark of raw hatred in her eyes.

Nevil smiled, despite feeling secretly upset. "You relentless little sinner! Can't you ever forgive her like a decent person?"

"No—not ever." The tense quiet of her tone held strong conviction. "Not just distant things, I can never forget—almost killing me and—and Roy. But because she always attacks me with sharp words and nasty thoughts. She can never accept that I am here—that I make you happy, which she could never believe. She resents being proven wrong by just a Hindu wife——" She paused in her passionate outburst, noticed the look on Nevil's face that reminded her of an earlier time; and her anger disappeared like a blown-out light. "King of me—I’m sorry. But—it’s true. And she was born Christian. But I—deep down, I’m still—Rajputni. Just like after twenty-three years as an English wife, I’m still in my heart—like the 'Queen who stood tall!'"

On her word, she stood up and faced him, smiling into his worried eyes; the grace of girlhood and the dignity of womanhood beautifully blended in her stance.

"Who was she?" Nevil asked, easily drawn away from his thoughts of Jane.

"Careless one! Have you forgotten the story of my Wonder-Woman—how a King, who loved his Queen with all his heart, bowed down in ecstasy and ‘took the dust off her feet’ in front of other wives who, out of jealousy, shouted: ‘Shameless one, raise the King’s hands to your head.’ But the Queen stood tall, smiling happily. ‘Not at all: both my feet and my head belong to my Lord. Can I truly claim anything as my own?’"

The speed of change and the playful warmth in her eyes really affected him—and the enchanting quality of her womanhood was so strong—that he, Sir Nevil Sinclair, Baronet of Bramleigh Beeches, almost found himself worshipping the ground she walked on.

"Anyone who doesn't accept regret doesn't accept life."

Nevil's fears were fully justified. Lady Roscoe was one of those frustrating people you could almost accurately predict, right down to their expression, what their reaction would be in any situation. So, Nevil, who wanted to avoid a "scene"—especially when it was started by Jane—delayed breaking the bad news to her as long as he could, without risking it getting to her through someone else.

Meanwhile, he felt encouraged and uplifted by a letter from Cuthbert Broome—a clever, straightforward letter that was basically a heartfelt acknowledgment of his belief in Roy as both an aspiring writer and a developing man.

"I don’t underestimate the risk," he concluded, with his usual honesty (not to be confused with the charming straightforwardness that stomps on other people's feelings), "but, generally speaking, I want to express my belief that your son and the grandson of Sir Lakshman Singh can be trusted to go far—to stay balanced both physically and mentally, even in tricky situations. He is eager for knowledge and to pursue his own path. If you try to block this strong drive, it might find other, possibly less favorable, outlets. I came across a valuable insight the other day. Since it’s quite relevant, I’m sharing it with you."

"'The only wisdom for any man or boy who feels the presence of unseen wings, the scent of unseen roses, and the subtle pull of unheard melodies, is work. If he chases any of these, they disappear. If he works, they will come to him without being sought...'"

"Well, when Roy goes out, I take on the responsibility of giving him tasks that will keep his mind sharp and his pen moving. That's my way of contributing to his start in life; and—if I may say so!—it's not something to be looked down upon. Tell him I'll come over to the Beeches the first weekend I can, and we'll have a long chat!—Yours always, C.B."

"After that," Nevil declared heroically, "Jane can say whatever she wants."

He immediately broke the news to her—by mail; the usual method for those who want to avoid "scenes." He also took the extra step to mention that the matter was fully resolved.

She replied the next morning—by text. "I don't understand. I'm coming down right away."

And, in no time at all, using her new traveling car—she arrived.

As the head of the Sinclair clan—at least in age and experience—she had to take action. From her perspective, it was Nevil's obvious responsibility to discourage the Indian lineage in the boy, as much as that sentimental, stubborn wife of his would allow. However, Nevil's sense of duty needed regular motivation, or it would wither away. It was her life’s mission to provide that motivation, especially when it came to Roy; and nobody could ever say she avoided a tough responsibility. It's safe to say that no one ever did!

Nevil—who would have given anything to be somewhere else—waited for her in the library: and the moment their eyes met, he tensed up completely. He didn't handle advice well and was defiant when told what to do; nobody knew this better than Jane, who thrived on giving advice and orders—never taking them! She still wore the sharp blazer and skirt along with the smart summer hat that had once upset the budding sense of beauty in nine-year-old Roy: only now, instead of the fierce feather, there stood a strictly structured bow. Jane was so consistent, both inside and out; in the eyes of this hopelessly artistic household, her lack of variation was almost a worse flaw than her knack for swooping in, giving advice, or making decisions for others.

But today, as she looked around the familiar room, her sigh—half anger, half bitterness—was real. She deeply cared, in her own way, for the brother she nagged mercilessly. And he cared too—in his own way—more than he wanted to show. But their love was unspoken, grounded in family secrets. Their visible clashes in temperament were more expressive.

"I guess we're pretty safe from being interrupted?" she asked, with a serious tone; and Nevil solemnly pointed to the biggest leather chair.

"I think the others are gone," he said, partially sitting on the edge of the writing table and lighting a cigarette. "But honestly, I have no idea why you bothered to come all this way after I clearly told you everything was sorted out."

"You really thought I’d just accept that—and stay quiet?" she shot back, her frustration clear. "I’m not stupid, Nevil, even if you are. I told you what would happen when you left in '99. You didn't pay attention back then. Maybe you’ll finally have the sense to listen now?"

Nevil shrugged. "Since you've come all this way to share your thoughts—I've really got no choice here."

And the freedom she was casually given, she embraced completely. For twenty minutes, by the clock, she shared her thoughts in a flow of lively everyday English, slipping into cliché dramatic phrases, typical of those who usually don’t express much, in moments of excitement....

To the familiar tuning-up process, Nevil listened without any reaction. But his anger increased with her growing eloquence—the reluctant anger of a calm man, more powerful than simple rage.

Such fine distinctions, however, were unknown to Jane. If you were angry, you were angry. That was it. And she really wanted to provoke Nevil's. His heated opposition would strengthen her own...

"India of all places in the world!" she concluded—a desperate tone creeping into her anger. "The one place where he should not be allowed to mess around—if the modern, frail young man has any spirit in him for that kind of thing. And it's your obvious responsibility to be completely honest with him about it. If you had any common sense at all, you'd see it yourself. But I always say that the smart ones are the biggest fools. And Roy's in the same situation—being your son. No grounding. All in the clouds. That's the result of Lil's silly education. And you can't say I didn't warn you. What he needs is discipline—a firm hand. Why not consider one of the Services? If he gets drawn to India—at his age, it's very possible he might start embracing Hinduism—or even repeat your mistake——"

She paused, just because she needed to catch her breath—and suddenly became aware of the fixed stillness of her brother's face.

"My foolishness—as you like to call it," he said with intense disdain, "has unexpectedly made our name well-known and paid off the mortgage on the old place. For that reason alone, you could at least have the decency to stop insulting my wife."

She tossed her head up, like a horse reacting to a tug on the reins.

"Oh, if it's an insult to speak the simple truth, I'm totally out of it. I could never call spades anything other than what they are: and I can't start new habits at my age. I don’t deny you’ve made a good thing out of your pictures. But no one in their right mind could call your marriage a wise choice."

Nevil flinched. "I got married for the only justifiable reason," he said, in a calm, measured tone. "And the situation has more than proven me right."

"Maybe—at least from your perspective. But you can't ignore the reality that—even if Roy marries into the best family in England—his son might still turn out the same. Dr. Simons tells me——"

"Will you shut up!" Nevil shouted, in a rage. "I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk about my business—or Roy’s—with your damn Doctor. And we both know that topic is off-limits."

She flinched at the intensity and passion of his sudden attack, never realizing how deeply her words had struck.

"Honestly, it's just as painful for me as it is for you——"

"I didn't say it hurt. I said it was blocked."

"Well, you push me into this with your ridiculous behavior; you're too much under Lil's control to stand up to Roy, even when it's for his own good. For goodness' sake, Nevil, take a strong stand for once and change your crazy decision."

He gave her a long, steady look. "Sorry to let you down after all the effort you've put in," he said in a calm tone, "but I've already told you the issue is settled. I'm standing my ground on that as firmly as even you could want."

"You really mean it?" she gasped, too shocked to be angry.

"I'm serious."

"Do you see the danger?"

"I see the risk."

The fact that he wouldn’t stoop to lying to her eased her bitter feeling of defeat just a bit.

She got up clumsily—all at once.

"Then I have nothing more to say. I'm done with all of you. Until you get your act together, I'm not stepping foot in here again."

In spite of the worn-out phrases, real pain resonated in her tone.

"Don't go off, old friend. You know you won't be able to keep it up," Nevil urged more gently than he had spoken so far.

But anger still overshadowed pain.

"When I say something, I mean it," she replied coldly, "and you’ll see the consequences." Without bothering to respond, he reached for the doorknob, but she waved him off. "It's all nonsense—pretending to be polite—when you've ignored my advice."

"As you wish." He stepped aside for her to go by. "Sorry this has bothered you so much. But we'll see you here again—once you've gotten over it."

"The boy would have gotten over it in no time," she shot back at him from the doorway. "Just wait and see, disaster will come from this. Then maybe you'll admit I was right."

He didn’t feel the need to argue about it. She was gone... And she had made an effort not to slam the door. Somehow that small act of self-control struck him with a sense of finality that was strangely missing in her dramatic statement.

He stood for a moment, looking at the shiny oak panels. Then he turned around and sat down in the chair she had been in, and all the inner tension of the last hour just fell apart....

It was the drawback of his artistic nature, this intense nervous reaction to stress; and with it came flooding back all the sneaky doubts and anxieties that even Lilámani's wisdom hadn’t completely banished. He felt torn at that moment between being angry with Roy for causing all this fuss, and being upset with Jane, who, despite her lack of warmth and sensitivity, was right—up to a point. It was just Family Herald melodrama about "not crossing the threshold." At least—much to his surprise—he found himself half-hoping it was. Roy and Lilámani could openly dislike her—and that would be that. Nevil—in spite of unforgivable moments—was likely to be tripped up by the fact that, after all, she was his sister; and her aggression was proof that, in her own strange way, she cared about him. Half the problem was that the love each had for the other took exactly the form that the other could appreciate the least: an all-too-common dilemma in family life. In any case, he had achieved his declaration of independence. And he had certainly managed to stir up "a huge mess."

With a sigh of suppressed frustration, he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands....

The door opened quietly. He jumped and looked up. It was Roy—wearing flannels and a blazer, his dark hair a bit messy: regarded dispassionately (and Nevil thought he really did) as a uniquely individual and attractive young man.

At the look on his dad's face, he hesitated, furrowing his brows in a way that reminded him of his mom.

"Is something wrong, Daddums? I'm really sorry. I came to get a book. Is it"—another pause—"Aunt Jane?"

"Why? Have you seen her?" Nevil asked sharply.

"Yes. Was it some kind of sudden encounter? As I walked up the path, she was getting into her car.—And she completely ignored me!" He looked more amused than impressed. Then the realization hit him. "Dad—have you been telling her? Is she 'as frantic as a skit'?"

Their favorite Hardy quote made Nevil smile. "She's upset—of course—because she wasn't asked," he said (a great thought). "And—well, she doesn't get it."

"'Of course she doesn't. Can she ever?" retorted the rude young person. "She lacks the ultimate ability—imagination." It was disrespectful, but there was no counter to it.

Nevil had realized a long time ago that scolding about "Aunt Jane" was pointless; it was a relief to see that the boy felt the same. So he smiled, or at least thought he did. But Roy was sharp-eyed, and his first impression had unsettled him.

No hesitation now. He stepped forward and placed a hand on his father's shoulder. "Dad, don’t worry about me—out there," he said with a shy tenderness that was soothing after the harsh scene Nevil had just experienced. "It'll be fine. Mom explained it—beautifully."

But louder than Roy's reassuring voice inside him was Jane's parting threat: "Disaster will come of it. Then maybe you'll admit I was right." It shook the very foundations of his courage. He just couldn't face the combination of disaster—and Roy. With a struggle, he managed to push the insidious thought away,—and just then, to his great surprise, Roy leaned down and kissed the top of his head.

"Confound Aunt Jane! She's been hammering you. And you are stressing out. You shouldn’t—I’m telling you. It’s bad for your work. Look here"—a dramatic pause. "Should I just drop it—for now, anyway?"

The way modern kids relate to their parents is quite touching. Nevil glanced up to check if Roy was just joking, and he was struck by a strange illusion (less common now, but still existing) of seeing his own reflection in Roy's eyes.

Roy had spoken on a whim—an admirable whim. But he clearly meant what he said, this boy labeled by Jane as "all in the clouds," and needing "a firm hand." This was one of those "whimsical and dangerous moments of everyday life" that pass in an instant; light as a feather, heavy with complicated issues. To Nevil, it felt as if the gods, with a mocking gesture, offered him the desire of his heart, saying: "It’s yours—if you’re foolish enough to accept it." The stress of his thoughts conflicted so much that he became aware of himself, fearing he might have hurt the boy with his unresponsive silence.

The pause had been so short that Roy had only just realized that his cherished dream was actually hanging in the balance—when Nevil stood up and confronted him, openly defying Jane and the awful irony of the situation.

"My dear old boy, you will not throw it away," he said with a smile. "I’ve never thought of the older generation as a hindrance. And now it’s my turn, I have to step up. What’s life without a little risk? I took my own—a big one—family or no——"

He paused—and Roy quickly filled in. "You mean—marrying Mom?"

"Yeah—just that," he said honestly. "The best luck I've ever had. She took the risk too—a bigger one for her. And I’ll be damned if we deny you yours. There’s a hidden key somewhere that most of us need to discover. Yours might be in India—who knows?"

He spoke quickly, as if eager to convince himself just as much as the boy. And he got his reward.

"Dad—you're absolutely amazing—you two," Roy said softly, but with strong certainty.

At that moment, the soft sound of the gong echoed through the house, and he slipped his hand through his father's arm. "That reminds me—I'm really hungry! If they're still out, let’s be brave and make some tea ourselves!"

Lady Roscoe was, after all, a benefactor in her own way. Her sudden appearance had brought these two closer together than they had been since their school days.

After all, human nature decided that it would be Roy himself who felt the most intense pain of separation when it came close enough to bring him down from the heights of his hopes to the reality of the situation.

Dyán was obviously thrilled and had no doubts. At the end of July, he and Arúna stopped by for a short visit. Roy thought his reasons for the short stay were a bit weak, but Dyán kept his secret and graciously accepted Tara Despard’s response as final.

It was during his visit that Roy began to feel his first uneasy thoughts; the first jarring encounter with practical details:—departure date, packing list, and the need to book his passage in advance. As for his destination, things were made easier by the fact that the new Resident of Jaipur, Colonel Vincent Leigh, C.S.I., D.S.O., happened to be the husband of Desmond's lovely sister Thea. The schoolboy bond between Lance and Roy had forged a lasting friendship between their families; and it was General Sir Theo Desmond—now retired—who had invited Roy, in the name of his 'Twin,' to start with an open-ended visit to the Leighs; the kind of informal, flexible visit that no one would think to suggest outside of India,—unless it was Ireland, in a past, happier time. The idea was a quiet comfort to Roy. It was also a hidden shock to realize he needed every bit of comfort he could get.

Very carefully, he hid his shameful frame of mind—even from his mother; although she probably suspected it and wouldn’t miss the chance to understand. What would life be worth without that dear, daily closeness—life uncolored by the beautiful charm of her gentle, passionate, humorous, delicately-balanced personality? Relationships of such rare quality come with their own heavy price, and the influence of a woman would always be, for Roy—as for most men with real talent and noble intentions—his danger zone or his salvation. The vague and distant thought of parting was possible—though unsettling. But all this talk of ships and travel gear suddenly highlighted the fact that in October he was actually going—to the other side of the world.

With Dyán gone, a weight settled on his heart and mind. Vaguely, and unfairly, he felt like his cousin was somehow at fault; and for a moment, he was actually glad to be without him. After the goodbyes, he went out for a solo walk—hatless, as usual—to calm his racing thoughts and remind that uncertain, hesitant Roy not to be a complete idiot....

Nothing beats the open moor for clearing the mind. The vibrant colors and endless blue horizons can definitely refresh the urge to escape the concrete and secure. He wondered if there was some hidden connection between the wanderlust of the home-loving Scott and the expansive moors and skies that surrounded him in his childhood...

But first he has to make his way through the enchanted green darkness of his beech tree woods, which felt haunted by memories at every turn. Beneath his favorite tree, a wooden cross—carved by Tara and himself—marked the grave of Prince, who had died three years ago from old age. And seeing it brought back the unforgettable day in May—the fight with Joe; Tara's bracelet, still cherished in his wallet, just like Tara cherished the "embroidered bodice," kept in a lavender-scented sachet, separate from ordinary blouses and scarves....

And once more, that annoying inner voice pressed on—"What a complete idiot you are—running away from everyone."

To him had fallen the privilege of knowing family life at its best—the finest and happiest on earth; and he could not escape the price exacted, when the call comes to act and decide and suffer alone. Associations that grow up with us are more or less taken for granted while their roots lie deep in the heart. Only when the threat of parting disturbs the delicate fibers, their depth and tenacity are revealed. And so it was with Roy. Hurrying through his woods of knightly adventures, he felt besieged, in spirit, by the many loves that had until now simply been a part of his life; yet today pressed urgently, individually, upon his consciousness, his heart...

And opposite them was the counter-force of deep ancestral feelings; huge, indistinct energies from the outside world; the feeling of unrest everywhere; of storm clouds on the larger horizon, heavy with dramas that could shake the heavens....

All these tough challenges made his youthful worries seem insignificant; even to question his lovely environment as almost too calm, too ideal. Life couldn’t be made up entirely of goodness, sweetness, poetry, and philosophy. Somewhere—distant, hidden, relentless—there must be powerful forces, significant things, maybe even hostile things, just waiting to attack him, to be faced and conquered. Anyway, after all his rambling, there was no doubt about playing the fool and backing out——

He was on the ridge now, with clear space all around him and heather underfoot; his stride matched the pace of his thoughts. Risks...? Of course, there were risks. He understood that more clearly now, and the conversation with his mother had pointed out a significant one that he hadn't even considered. Broome was right. His focus on her had somewhat stalled his emotional growth; it had kept him—despite all his talent and his First in Greats—very much a boy at heart. Arúna's grace and joy had definitely caught his attention more during this last visit. There's no denying the allure of the Eastern element had its dangerous charm. And the Eastern element was off-limits. As for Tara—sister, friend, and High Tower Princess all in one—she was as much a part of home as his mother and Christine. He simply hadn't seen her as a young woman yet. In fact, he had been too wrapped up in Oxford and writing and his dreams, and the overall delight of life, to confront the future definitively, except for the idea of going to India someday, somehow....

Lost in the whirlwind of his thoughts and the excitement of light and color, he completely forgot about tea time...

It was after five when he finally rounded the yew hedge and stepped onto the long lawn; at the far end stood Tara, clearly sent out to look for him. She was wearing her delphinium dress and the large blue hat adorned with a single La France rose. She walked thoughtfully, her head down; and in that moment, through some quirk of perception, he saw her clearly, just as she was. He noticed the grace of her young slender figure, the vibrant colors reminiscent of wildflowers, the delicate curve of her nose that spoke of her background and character; the mouth that, even when still, seemed to pulse with sensitivity. And he thought: "Wow! She's so beautiful!"

Of course, he had always known it—somewhere in the back of his mind. The strange thing was, he had never put it into words before. And from that thought came a spark of inspiration. If only she could join them—for a while, at least. He felt so strongly about their brother-sister bond that the idea seemed completely natural, as if it were about Christine. Over the past year or so, he had definitely noticed a thin barrier growing between them. He thought it was just part of growing up; but it made him feel noticeably shy about bringing up his great idea.

She lifted her head at that moment, saw him, and waved her hand authoritatively. Driven by excitement, he agreed to rush over.

"Casual demon—what have you been up to?" she greeted him with a playful seriousness.

"Prowling on the ridge. It was beautiful up there," he replied, observing closely the shape of her eyelid and her thick dark lashes.

"Well, the tea's half cold and most of it's eaten; and Aunt Lila looked a bit curious. So I offered to go and find you."

"How can you tell?"

A dimple appeared in one cheek. "I couldn't! I was going to the woods, just in case. Come on."

"No rush. If the tea's half cold, it can wait a little longer." He took a breath, building up his courage; then said, "Tara—I have a proposal to make."

"Roy!" Her lips trembled slightly and then went still.

"Well, here's the thing. Wouldn't it be great if you came out with us three?"

"Roy!" The tone was different. "That's not something to joke about."

"But I'm serious. High Tower Princess, wouldn't you want to join?"

"Of course I would." Was it just his imagination, or did her cheeks flush ever so slightly? "But it’s completely, absolutely impossible. The kind of thing only you would think of. So please drop it—and come inside."

"Not until you promise. I'm really serious about this. And I'm going to confront you about it."

"Well, you won't have me with you—if you talk until midnight."

"Why not?"

Her smile had that delightful, trembling quality. "Were you twenty-one last birthday—or twelve? If you think you’ll be lonely, just ask for Christine. She’s your sister—I’m not!"

The emphasis and slight tone in the last words hit home. Roy's expression dropped. "Oh, I get it. But you've always been like a sister to me. Thea would get it. And these days, girls do all kinds of things."

"Yeah—they really do!" Tara agreed softly. "They scratch faces and burn down beautiful, innocent houses. But they don't happen to belong to my mom. Roy—it's exactly what I said—crazy—totally— If it weren't true, do you think I’d say no?"

Then Roy realized he was defeated. He also understood that she was right and that he had been a thoughtless fool—both were discouraging realizations. For a moment, he stood there confused while Tara played with a long chain he had given her and absentmindedly looked at a daisy plant that had dared to invade the oldest, prettiest lawn in that part of the country.

But Roy wasn’t used to being held back—at least not by things at home: and when he got an idea in his head, he could be stubborn, even to the point of making bad decisions. He was set on having Tara come with him. And Tara wanted to go. With her lasting charm and her newfound beauty, this combination sparked an even bolder idea than the first.

"Tara—dear," he said, in a different tone that balanced between affection and urgency. "I've got something huge to say."

She left the daisy and faced him, her blue eyes wide and her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

"Would it be—quite so 'crazy—totally'—if ... well, if we were engaged?"

The huge news was out, and the impact on her was clear. Color visibly flushed her face. She straightened up with a demeanor that seemed to literally increase the space between them.

"Seriously, Roy—have you totally lost your mind today?"

He looked—and felt—downcast. "But, Tara," he insisted, "it's such an amazing idea. Wouldn't you—think about it, ever? We'd be a perfect match. Mom would love it—so much. And we've been sort of—looking out for each other all these years. At least"—sudden uncertainty hit him—"I guess you do care still—a little bit?"

"Silly boy! Of course I—care ... a lot."

That was more like the Tara he knew. "Okay. Why call me crazy? I care, too. I always have. Just think how amazing it would be, you and I together, exploring all the wonders of our Game and Mummy's stories—Udaipur, Amber, Chitor, maybe even the shrine of the real Tara——"

Still shyly reserved, she thought, "how great that would be"; and the thought kept her silent for so long that he became impatient.

"High Tower Princess—come on. Your adult attitude is really charming—but just a bit over the top. Are you coming? It'll ruin everything if you don't."

She shook her head with a slight wise smile that seemed to gently but firmly push him away from her; making him feel like little more than a schoolboy facing a woman; very young in her newfound shyness and dignity, but still—a woman.

"No, Roy—I’m not coming. It’s really nice of you to want me there. But I can’t— for a bunch of reasons. So please understand this once and for all. And don’t worry about it."

"But you said—you cared," Roy murmured blankly.

"Of course I do. It’s just that there’s caring—and caring... since you make me say it. You must know that by now. Anyway, I realize we can’t just get married because we’re very fond of each other and it would make 'Mummy' happy and be convenient for India."

Roy sighed heavily. He felt younger and younger with every cheerful, sensible word she said. It was all so different from his enthusiastic, passionate Tara that confusion softened his true disappointment.

"I guess you're right," he reluctantly admitted. "But I'm really disappointed."

"You are here now. You won’t be later. It’s not the right time for you to get married—yet. You have so many important things to do first. Go to India and take care of them. Then—when the right time comes, you’ll understand—and you’ll be grateful to me—for realizing it now. There, what a lecture! But the point is—we can’t: and I won’t be pressured about it. I’m heading back to tea; and if you don’t come, I’ll have to explain to Aunt Lila—why?"

He sighed. "I'll probably tell her myself tonight. Do you mind?"

"No, she'll get it."

"Bet she will not."

"She will. You're not the only person she understands, but you are her spoiled boy."

She turned around after that impulsive little comment, more like her usual self; and she moved so quickly that Roy had a hard time keeping up with her. It was even harder for him to sort through his own tangled thoughts and feelings. A few clear thoughts broke through the confusion, like mountaintops emerging from fog. He realized she was suddenly incredibly attractive; that her combination of charm and stubbornness had really stirred him up; that despite everything, she was right about him not being ready to marry yet; that he hoped she didn't completely despise him; and that he hated the idea of leaving her more than ever.

Her pace, maybe on purpose, made it hard to talk; and he still had a lot to say.

"Tara—why are you running like this?" he exclaimed, disapprovingly. "Are you upset with me?"

She gave him a small smile.

"Not yet. But I will be soon if you’re not careful. And I can be dangerous when I'm angry!"

"Don’t I know that? I once had a scratch that didn’t heal for a month. But please walk slower. You’re not ditching me—for good—right?"

She slowed down a bit, out of necessity; catching her breath for this new and completely stubborn Roy.

"Honestly, I've never seen you ask so many silly questions in just one hour before. You must have had some magic drink up on the moor! Have you forgotten you’re my Bracelet-bound Brother?"

"But that doesn't exclude—the other thing. It's not one of the Prayer-book connections! I’m saying, Tara—you could at least promise to think about it. If you can't do that much, I won't believe you care at all about me, despite everything you say——"

Her blue eyes sparkled at that—real intensity; and she paused once more, facing him.

"Roy—be quiet! You’re driving me crazy. I want to hit you. First, you come up with this totally insane idea; then you annoy me by acting like a spoiled kid who won’t accept 'No' for an answer."

Roy straightened up. "I'm not spoiled—and I'm not a kid. I'm a man."

"Well then, try and act like one."

The moment she shot back her impulsive response, she realized just how deeply she had hurt him. With a quick change in her expressive face, she reached out a hand. He held it tightly. Then, all of a sudden, she leaned closer; her lips trembling; her eyes softening into a half-smile.

"Roy—sweetheart," she whispered, just above a breath. "You really are a combination of all three. That’s what makes you so charming and frustrating. And it’s not your fault—the overindulgence. We’ve all contributed to it. I’ve been just as guilty as the rest. But this time—please believe me—I honestly, completely can’t—even for you."

He was lost for words. All he could do was hold her hand tightly.

But with a quick move, she got away—and ran around the corner of the house; leaving him in a state of even greater confusion, searching for his mother and the upset teapot—alone.

He found her, surrounded by the remnants of tea, deep in her big armchair; her eyes and fingers focused on a piece of intricate embroidery; her thoughts wandering about her late son.

Bramleigh Beeches drawing room—as designed by Sir Nevil Sinclair for his Indian bride—was a space worthy of its owner: high and roomy, filled with light from three tall French windows, long gold curtains interwoven with bronze; gold and cream were the main colors; ivory, brass, and bronze were the main accents, mostly Indian; and there were flowers everywhere—roses, lilies, sweet peas. Yet, amid all this, the spirit of Lilámani Sinclair felt uneasy, missing the son from whom, too soon, both she and her home would be left alone—

At the sound of his footsteps, she looked up.

"Wicked one! What happened to you?"

Impossible to hide his emotional chaos from her. So he told her the plain truth.

"Tara came to me! I had been wandering around the moor and lost track of time. I found her on the lawn—"

"Yes—where is she?—And you?"

He sensed her anxiety. The next moment, he was kneeling by her chair, revealing everything.

"Mom, I just asked her to marry me. But she just won’t even consider it. I thought it would be so nice to go out together—that it would make you happy too—"

The smile in her eyes reminded Tara of her own. "Did you really say it like that—to her, my love?"

"No—not really. Of course, I did mention you—and India. She says she likes me. But she got really upset. I can't figure her out."

A slightly annoyed tone in his voice suggested he wanted sympathy. To his utter surprise, she said thoughtfully, as if talking to herself: "What a wise Tara!"

"Well, I don't get where the wisdom is," he muttered, a bit thrown off.

"Not yet, my dear son. Maybe someday when your eyes aren't so blinded by the vibrant glimmer of youth—of yourself—you will see—many surprises. You're not ready for a wife yet, Roy. Your heart is reaching for distant things. That—she has been wise enough to understand."

"Maybe, I’m not really sure. She didn’t seem at all like herself sometimes." He gazed thoughtfully at a slender vase filled with sprays of soft pink rambler roses, which, for some reason, reminded him of the girl who had suddenly turned into a woman; and his timid, hidden thought finally came out: "I’ve been wondering, Mom, is it ... could she be—in love with someone else? Do you think she is?"

Lilámani shook her head at him. "That's a question for a man! Hard to say. At this age, when girls have such strong personalities—like my Tara—they naturally know how to hide their true feelings." She set down her needlework and gently held his face in her hands, looking deep into his eyes. "Do you think you are already—in love with her, Roy? Be honest."

The touch of her hands sent shivers through him. The question in her eyes searched deep.

"Honestly, Mom—I really don’t know," he said slowly. "I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way before; other than the excitement at dances ... and all that. She just stirred something in me just now and made me want her so much. But I honestly hadn’t considered it like that before. And—I thought it might make you and Dad feel better about ... the other thing, if I went out dressed up."

She pulled his head close and kissed him, then let her hands drop into her lap. "Wonderful Sonling! It really would make me feel better and bring me joy—if it comes from the right place. Just remember, as long as you’re thinking about me first, you can be sure That Other hasn’t shown up yet."

"But I'll always think of you first," he said, taking her hands. "There's no one like you. There never will be."

"No—not in the same way, but in a different way—in clarity and closeness. Love is one huge drive, but it takes many shapes. Like white light created from various colors. No competition for me, That Other; but daughter-in-law—best gift a son can bring to his father's home. Right now, there's only space inside you for one major thing—India."

"And you—"

"But I am India."

"Sublimated essence of it, according to Jeffers."

"Jeffers says a lot of silly things!" But she didn’t hide her enjoyment.

"I've seen some moments of brilliance!—But, I ask you, Motherling, how much is the tea?"

"Tea?" She pretended to be really surprised. "I thought you were way too lost in thought!"

"On the contrary. I'm just starving!"

And right away he dug into a plate of sugar cakes while she called for the fresh teapot, which was often needed for 'Mr. Roy.'

Nevil was in the city for work and wouldn't be back until the next day. The news was buzzing with rumors, but most regular people, caught up in their daily lives, continued to hold on to hope. Sir Nevil Sinclair wasn't one of them, but he kept his deepest worries to himself. Neither his wife nor his son were big fans of reading the news, which, in his view, was probably a good thing.

Certainly, it didn’t cross Lilámani’s mind that any trouble in Europe could invade the safety of her home or affect Roy's bright future. Her mother’s heart knew without a doubt that he was meant to shine. Surrounding that knowledge, like a glowing aura, was a dreamy hope that maybe his brightness could one day strengthen the bond between Nevil's people and her own. The issue of India's changing relationship with England was very close to her heart. Her poetic mind always viewed England as the "husband of India," while misguided or malicious troublemakers—who would "make the Mother a widow"—were fancifully represented by Jane. In this matter concerning India, Roy had triumphed over Jane: surely a good sign for greater things ahead; at heart, she was still open to signs, more than she liked to admit. Nevil would probably call it crazy motherly pride. But she felt the spirit of his grandfather guiding Roy, and she knew well that the old man's wisdom would temper his youthful enthusiasm. Beyond that, no human eyes could see; only the very human heart of a mother could dream and hope...

Long ago, her father had told her that nations were always revitalized by individuals; that India—aristocratic to the core of her Brahmin-influenced soul—would never accept the unpredictable power of the masses. For her, it would always be about the man—ruler, soldier, or saint.

Not that she had mentioned her 'arrogance' to Nevil or even to Roy. Nor had she shown either of them a certain letter from a distinguished Indian woman; pure Indian by birth and also a Christian by birth; her sympathy with East and West as balanced as Lilámani's own. The letter was kept in a slim blue bag, lovingly embroidered. Lilámani—impractical and dreamy—wore it like a charm, close to her heart; and at night, she tucked it under her pillow along with her gold watch and a piece of scented fabric.

To night, being alone and her mind filled with thoughts of Roy, she took it out and read it again for the hundredth time, pausing, as always, on its captivating ending.

"I have seen a lot and grieved even more over the issue of the Eurasian, as it has increased in our beloved country—the result, most often, of casual relationships between low-caste individuals on both sides, with a sense of stigma that drags them down even further. However, when it comes to unions of higher caste—like yours and your 'Nevil'—I see no stigma; perhaps even a spiritual benefit for your children. I truly love both countries with all my heart. And God has given me the vision that India might one day be saved by the child of a union like yours. He will carry the strength of his origins; the spirit of the East; the powerful mind and character of the West. He will approach the task of uniting them with a dual love and understanding that the world can't help but embrace. What if the ultimate purpose of British rule in India is this—that the successor of Buddha should be someone born of high-caste, high-minded British and Indian parents; a blend of the best that East and West can offer? That vision may inspire you in your early days of joyful motherhood. So I feel compelled to share it..."

Such a vision—whether a fantasy or a prophecy—could not help but move Lilámani Sinclair's Eastern heart deeply. But she hesitated to voice any doubts; and skeptical Nevil definitely would. As for Roy, her instinct told her it was too intense an idea to plant in his passionate mind. So she kept it to herself, read it from time to time, and hoped that someday it could come true—if not through her, then through another Lilámani, who would find the courage to connect her life with England. Above all, she hoped that whoever would bring about India's revival might come from Rajasthán...

In the middle of her thoughts and prayers, she fell into a deep sleep—dreaming of Roy being swept away on the waves of some huge, unclear disturbance. The 'how' and 'why' of it all escaped her. Only the strong impression stayed with her....

And before the week was over, a real and terrible upheaval struck a shocked and oblivious world, a world lulled into a false sense of security and too busy rushing headfirst toward a centrifugal point called 'progress' to worry about a nonexistent threat across the North Sea.

But at the first clear sign of danger, lovers of pleasure, progress, and freedom were suddenly turned, as if by magic, into a crowd of confused, curious, and angry people who had completely lost their sense of direction; they grabbed newspapers, shared their thoughts with total strangers, and insisted that a European War was unimaginable, unthinkable, yet couldn’t stop discussing it...

It was the terrifying nightmare of an earthquake, when the solid ground beneath you betrays you. And it rattled even the strongest nerves in the early weeks of the Great War, set to destroy their beloved and familiar world for months, years, maybe even decades...

But beneath all the noise and chaos of the earlier restlessness and the later fear and hopelessness, the strong, kind, unshakeable heart of the country still beat steadily—if quietly—in the everyday life of its cottages and grand country houses. Twentieth-century England couldn't be seen as declining while it held among its hidden gems homes with such charm, culture, and mutual trust as those that produced the Grenfells, the Charltons, a Lord Elcho, an Edward Tennant, and a Charles Sorley—just to name a few from that array of 'golden boys' who selflessly gave their lives—for what?

The answer to that overwhelming question is not yet. But the beauty of their gift remains: a beauty that no failure can tarnish or dim...

To the inmates of Bramleigh Beeches—except for Nevil—the crash hit with shocking suddenness, overshadowing all personal issues, soul-searching, and major decisions. Even Lady Roscoe set aside her Family Herald heroics and 'crossed the threshold' without remarks from Nevil or herself. The most significant matters suddenly seemed trivial next to the huge questions that occupied everyone's thoughts and conversations: 'Can we hold them?' 'Can they invade us?' 'Could it really be true—this whispered horror, that rumored disaster?' And the most pressing question of all for the individual—'Where do I fit in?'

Nevil walked in automatically, having had years of casual connection with the Artists' Rifles. He was a Colonel now and would join up as a matter of course—much to his wife's quiet amazement and obvious pride. Lacking any military demeanor, he just acted on instinct like most Englishmen, not bothering to analyze his motives; simply embracing the spirit of Noblesse oblige; or, in the more casual modern version—'you just do.'

Roy—poet and dreamer—became electrifyingly aware of his dual heritage as a soldier. Throughout history, the deep connection between poets and warriors is reaffirmed in times of war: and the Rajput in him acknowledged only one true way of fighting—the combined force of man, horse, and sword. A disillusionment, strange and profound, awaited him in that regard: and as for India—what was the need for his youthful endeavors when the entire Empire was being unified into a single, resilient force by the threefold impacts of a shared danger, a common enemy, and a mutual goal?

It was probably this feeling of a clear purpose during a time of intense thought, sexual issues, and political tension that drove so many unexpected types of men directly to that common goal—the Front. The War provided a meaningful and practical outlet for their naive idealism; to their realism, it presented the harsh truths of exhaustion, pain, physical risk—cherished life and overwhelming death.

For Roy, cavalry was second nature. In the saddle, even Jane couldn’t find anything to criticize; she had no idea that, in his natural talent for riding, he was Rajput through and through. His athletic build, strong thighs, and light touch marked him as the perfect centaur; he had already gained some recognition in the cavalry section of the Officers' Training Corps. However, his strong desire to stay connected with his father led him to agree with Sir Nevil's suggestion to start in the Artists' Rifles and apply for a transfer later—when it would be clearer how this intense situation was likely to unfold. George and Jerry—aged fifteen and sixteen and a half—were frustrated by their own pointless youth, which, under better circumstances, they would never have admitted. Jerry—a lively and reckless character—was eager to join the Flying Corps the moment he could manage it. George—the truest Sinclair of them all—wisely chose the Navy, because it took you young. But no one paid them much attention. They were all too focused on the newspapers and their own immediate plans.

And Lilámani also found her place when the King's exciting announcement declared the arrival of Indian troops. A camp was going to be set up on the estate. Later, there would be recovering soldiers. In the meantime, there was a huge need for 'comforts' to keep her, Helen, and Christine busy.

Tara's intense ambition would take her far and wide. Her fiery spirit—one that instinctively rose to tragic situations and heroic challenges—could find peace nowhere but in the chaotic, amazing mix of it all. Without making a fuss, she decided to get there as quickly as possible; and, through sheer focus and hard work, she made it happen. Before Roy left England, before her dearly loved brother—a man full of bright potential—had completed his flight training, she was driving her car in Belgium, caught up in Antwerp, facing and enduring awful things...

After Tara, Nevil—for the Artists' Rifles were early in the field. After Nevil, Roy—his exchange done—very slim and soldierly in cavalry uniform; his grey-blue eyes, with the hint of mischief in them, more than ever noticeable in his sunburned face.

The last day, the last hour were both incredibly sad and joyfully unbelievable; so much so that Lilámani's timid heart was grateful for small distractions that helped take her mind off the looming farewell. Even today, as usual, her outfit and sari were chosen instinctively to reflect her emotions:—the mother-of-pearl mood; a blend of happiness and sadness: happy to give; yet longing to hold on. Even though she was the daughter of Rajputs, she experienced a very human urge to withdraw when the harsh reality of parting set in; when he held her so tightly and for so long that she felt as if the pressure around her heart might break—and that would be the end....

But, by some miracle, some power that wasn't her own, she managed to stay brave; even though, when he let her go, she could barely see through her tears.

Her last words—completely true to who she was—caught him off guard.

"Son of my heart—live forever," she whispered, placing her hands gently on his chest. "And when you go into battle, always keep in mind that They must not win, because no sacred or beautiful thing would be left untouched by them. And when you go into battle, always remember—Chitor."

"It’s you I’ll always remember—looking like this," he replied softly. But he never forgot her instructions; and throughout years of struggle, he followed them exactly....

That was in April, after Neuve Chapelle, when even optimists acknowledged that the war could last a year.

At Christmas, he came home on a short visit—an altered Roy; his skin was tanner, his sensitive lips pressed firmer under the shadow of his mustache, and his body and spirit had grown tougher without losing their delicacy or flexibility. More lively on the surface, he was more serious and reserved underneath—even around her. From the look in his eyes, she could tell he had experienced things that words could never capture. Some of those things she had also sensed through his mind; the spiritual connection between them was that strong. In that sense at least, he was beautifully, genuinely the same...

Nevil was home too for that wonderful Christmas, and Tara, changed in her own vibrant way, was open and friendly with Roy, though the adult barrier between them was rarely lifted now. The War kept them both in its tight grip, fulfilling, in a terrible and immense way, the hidden desire—not uncommon in young people, though kept secret like a vice—to suffer for others. Everything else seemed unimportant for the moment. Personal matters could wait...

When it was time to let Nevil and Roy go again, after their brief, beautiful time together, Lilámani realized how those fifteen months of constant worry and endless service had shaken her resolve. The joy of giving could barely keep up with the fear of losing them; she felt like her heart might break from the pressure. But it didn’t break. It held on—like the hearts of millions of mothers and wives have throughout history—until the breaking point... and beyond. The immense pain of the entire world both crushed and supported her, making her personal pain feel almost small.

They walked away from her. And the War continued—tragically, heroically, persistently, without a clear end; it seemed like it would go on forever. One started to feel like a life without the shadow of War had never existed. As if it would never exist again——

As early as 1819, there was a Desmond in India; a notable soldier-administrator of his time. During the Sikh Wars, there was a Desmond in the Punjab; and at the time of the Great Mutiny, there was a Punjab Cavalry Desmond in Kohat; a remarkable fighter, with a flowing beard and a relaxed uniform that wouldn't appeal to today’s military standards. In the year of the second Afghan War, there was yet another Desmond in Kohat; someone who earned the 'For Valour' cross, married Sir John Meredith’s daughter, and rose to great distinction. Later, in 1918, his two sons were stationed there in the same Punjab Cavalry Regiment. By now, there was also a bungalow in Kohat known as 'Desmond's bungalow,' currently occupied by Colonel Paul Desmond, who is now in command.

That’s not an unusual story in India. She has cast her influence over certain families, and they have followed each other through generations, like homing birds tracing their path across the sunset sky. Their name becomes a legend that’s passed down from father to son because India doesn’t forget. There’s probably nothing quite like it in the stories of any other country. It creates continuity and a rich tradition of service and devotion, a tradition that will endure until activists and theorists bring an end to Britain in India. But that day isn’t here yet, and the best people from both races still believe it never will be.

Certainly neither Paul nor Lance Desmond, riding home together from gear inspection on a September morning, had the slightest thought of breaking away from family tradition. Lance, at twenty-seven—lean and soldier-like, fully alert—was like his father in every way, even sporting the V.C. after his name, which he had 'picked up from the War,' along with a Croix de Guerre and a brevet-Majority. While Cavalry had fallen out of favor in France, Mesopotamia and Palestine had provided the Regiment with its opportunity—complete with fever, dysentery, and all the plagues of Egypt to keep things interesting.

It was while trying to fill in his unfortunate gaps that Colonel Desmond had requested Roy Sinclair, thus fulfilling his brother’s wish and, coincidentally, Roy’s desire to serve with the Indian Cavalry. To achieve this, his skills in the language, horsemanship, and his bravery and resourcefulness in scouting had proven to be very useful. Paul—who barely knew him at that point—quickly realized that he had gained a valuable asset for the Regiment—the powerful obsession that demanded his absolute loyalty and seemed likely to hold it for a lifetime.

"He's just John all over again," Lady Desmond would say, referring to a brother who had served the great Fetish from junior officer to Colonel and left his name on a cross in the Kohat cemetery.

Sure! Here’s the modernized version: Certainly, in looks and features, Paul was very much like Meredith: the coppery tone of his hair, the straight nose and steady gray-blue eyes, his height and build suggesting a hidden strength. One of the biggest challenges of his life was keeping his large frame fit for polo without sacrificing his impressive work capacity. Aside from this important detail, he was unusually unaware of his striking appearance, except when others teased him about resembling Lord Kitchener, and they were usually shut down for their trouble; although deep down, he was quite proud of it. He only had one issue with his childhood hero: the decision that officially disbanded the Frontier Force; though its spirit lives on and will continue to for decades. Like his brother, he had 'snagged' a few medals from the War: but being in command of the Regiment, with Lance leading his favorite squadron, was better than anything else.

The strong bond of affection between these two—first and last of a family of six—was strengthened by their differences. Lance had the energy of a rushing river; Paul the calm and depth of a mountain lake. Lance was a sharp rapier; Paul a claymore—slow to strike, powerful when provoked. Both were natural leaders; both, it’s worth mentioning, 'Piffers'[3]. They had just returned in March from active duty, with the Regiment looking much worse for wear; they were genuinely sorry to miss the biggest show on record; yet genuinely glad to be back in India, a sadly changing India, though it was.

Two urgent questions were bothering Lance's mind as they rode slowly up the slope to the Blue Bungalow. Would the board of doctors, who were currently evaluating Roy, give him another chance? Would their upcoming assignments force them to a 'down-country' station? They had only been assigned to Kohat until these decisions were made.

To one of those questions, Colonel Desmond already knew the answer.

"I got a message from the General this morning," he said, after examining his brother's profile and cleverly assessing his thoughts.

True enough—his beginning gave him away. "The General?—Reliefs?"

"Yes." A pause. "We're headed to—Lahore Cantonments."

"Wow!"

"I've already made that clever comment. You don't need to think it's original!"

"I'm not in the mood to flatter myself or anyone else. I'm extremely angry. And if dear old Roy has to be the one to pay the price——!" He was at a loss for words. He had his father's talent for making friends, and out of them all, Roy Sinclair was the best.

"I'm worried he will be if I know anything about medical boards."

"Why the hell——?" Lance exclaimed. "It's not like A1 officers are falling over each other in the service. If Roy was a soldier, they'd quickly come up with something better than leave and pointless tonics."

Colonel Desmond smiled at the typical outburst.

"Sure, their tinkering isn’t worth much. But I’m worried there’s more going on with Roy than just what a doctor can fix. Still—he doesn’t seem eager to go Home."

Lance shook his head. "Of course—poor guy. He feels like he can't handle things yet. It's not just the excitement of Mesopotamia that has thrown him off balance. It's losing that precious mother of his." His eyes darkened with emotion. "You can’t blame him. If anything were to happen——" He stopped suddenly.

Paul Desmond clenched his jaw and remained quiet. Deep down, he knew the Regiment had one true rival—and Lady Desmond was aware of it too....

They discovered the bungalow was empty. There was no trace of Roy.

"Getting around them," suggested Paul optimistically, and walked on into his dufter.

Lance lit a cigar, threw himself into a porch chair, and picked up the 'Civil and Military.' He had just glanced over the war telegrams when Roy came up at a brisk trot.

Lance leaned forward and tossed the paper aside. A quick look between them was enough. Roy's plan to 'play it cool' had fallen short.

He looked pale even with a sunburn; exhausted and discouraged; with no hint of a smile in his eyes. He stroked the soft nose of his beloved Suráj—a graceful animal, half Arab, half Waler; and absentmindedly acknowledged the wild excitement of his Irish terrier puppy, named by Lance the Holy Terror—Terry for short. Then he climbed the steps, settled into the other chair, and dropped his cap and whip on the ground.

"Damn the doctors," Lance said, with no need for questions.

That typical look of sympathy made Roy smile wryly. "Stubborn guys. I tricked them with everything I had. Maybe went overboard. Anyway, they weren't buying it. They've let go of my valuable services. Mild anemia, a bit of nerves, heart issues—and a few other weak ailments. I’m surprised they didn’t throw in housemaid's knee! Oh, damn them all!" He turned a sigh into a long yawn. "Let’s have some fun with a drink, Lance. Doctors are exhausting to debate with. And Cuthers always said I couldn't argue to save my life! So, what about those drinks?"

"A bit discouraging—at noon," Lance muttered without belief.

"Well, I am demoralized; finished—cursed—done for. I'm about to receive a ridiculous medical certificate to prove it. As a soldier, I'm done—from now on for good. You see before you the ghost of what could have been. After that gold-medal display of nonsense, please bring out those pegs!"

Lance Desmond listened with a serious smile and a tight feeling in his chest to the absurdities of his best friend, who had shared the intense and crazy ups and downs of war with him for three years. He recognized that tendency to speak randomly to mask some inner pain. With every silly word Roy said, he was silently admitting how deeply he felt the impact, and showcasing his own bitter disappointment would have seemed selfish. So he simply said with the right level of seriousness, "I acknowledge you've made a strong case for 'said pegs'!" And he shouted his orders accordingly.

They filled their glasses in silence, avoiding eye contact. Every moment made the hateful verdict feel more real. No more playing polo together. No more sharing books, jokes, passions, and strong dislikes, which both of them often had. No more expeditions in the hills beyond Kashmir.

From the first of these, they had recently returned—sick leave for Roy; and the plan was to repeat it next April if they could manage to get leave first. They both knew the other was thinking about this. But they appeared completely focused on drowning their thirst and disappointment in large glasses of ice-cold whisky and soda. Moreover—embarrassing but true—when the glasses were empty, things started to look a bit less bleak. It became easier to talk about plans. And Desmond was feeling quite anxious about that.

"You won't be pushed aside right away," he said; and Roy smiled at the relief in his tone.

"Next month, I guess. We need to make the most of these few weeks, my friend."

"And then—what?... Going home?"

Roy didn't respond right away. He lay back again, staring out at the decent imitation of a lawn, at rose beds covered with over-blown mignonette, and a single messy tamarisk casting a spiky shadow on the grass. And in his mind's eye, he was imagining the most beautiful lawn he knew, with its majestic twin beeches and a hammock swung between them—an empty shell; the gem gone. He was visualizing the drawing room; the calming simplicity of its cream and gold: but no dear and lovely figure, in a gold-flecked sari, lost in the big armchair. Her window seat in the studio—empty. No one in a 'mother-o'-pearl mood' to come and tuck him in and share secrets, the last thing. His father, also unwell; his left coat sleeve half empty, where the forearm had been removed.

"N—no," he finally said, still gazing at the unblinking sunshine. "Not Home. Not yet—anyway."

Then, after confessing, he turned and looked directly into his friend's eyes—the hazel-gray eyes he had admired so much as a kid, because of how they darkened with anger or strong emotion. And he still admired them. "A coward—am I? That's not a flattering conclusion. But I guess it's the harsh truth."

"It hasn't hit me that way." Desmond openly met his gaze.

"That's a relief. But—if your name happened to be Lance Desmond, you'd go—regardless."

"I doubt it. The place must be full of memories. We Anglo-Indians, moved around from place to place, know very little about homes like yours. A man—can't judge——"

"You're really generous, Lance!" Roy said suddenly, filled with warmth. "Anyway—coward or not—I just can't deal with—the situation, yet. I think my dad will understand. After all—here I am in India, just like we planned, before everything changed. So—if I have the opportunity, I might as well take it. The old place is mostly empty these days—since Tiny got married and Dad’s Air Force job keeps him in Town. So—as I mentioned earlier——!"

"You'll stay out here for now? Thank God for that."

Desmond's heartfelt thankfulness was so intense that they both erupted in laughter; and their laughter chased away the ghosts in the air.

"Jaipur it is, I guess, as planned. Thea will be thrilled. Is Jaipur really a health resort?"

"I'm not looking for health resorts. I'm looking for knowledge—and a few other things. Not Jaipur first, anyway. The moment I get the official boot—I'm heading to Chitor."

"Chitor?" A hint of disbelief was present in Desmond's voice.

"Yes—the casket that holds the essence of a culture; hidden away in the wilderness of Rajasthan. Have you ever heard of it, you cheeky Punjabi? Or does nothing exist for you south of Delhi?"

"Just a thing or two—not to mention Thea!"

"Of course—I’m sorry! She would appreciate Chitor."

"Actually, they went there—and to Udaipur last year. She's adamant about getting Vincent transferred. And the Burra Sahibs are like putty in her hands. If they're into music and she brings out the fiddle, they don't stand a chance!"

Roy's eyes had that distant gaze.

"It'll be really nice to see her—and hear her play the fiddle again, if she's up for hanging out with me for as long as she wants. Anyway, there's my grandfather——"

"Totally unnecessary," Desmond jumped in a bit too quickly. "If I know Thea, she'll cling to you for the cold season and make sure you have a place to stay if you want to explore Rajputana and let your wild ideas loose! You'll be living the good life. The Residency is like a palace. Not exactly Thea's dream life. She's a free spirit at heart; her social skills don't get much opportunity down there. Just a handful of white folks; and old Vinx buried deep in his studies, writing a book. But, being Thea, she has fully thrown herself into it all. She's become really interested in Indian women. She's involved in some kind of romance now. A girl who was educated at home. It seems to always lead to trouble. I have a feeling she's a cousin of yours."

Roy started. "What—Arúna?"

"She didn't say the name. Just chaos—and Thea to the rescue!"

"Poor Arúna! She stayed in England for quite a while because of the War—and Dyán. I haven't heard about Dyán in ages; and I don't think anyone else has either. He was injured in 1915 and lost his left arm. He said he was going to study art in Calcutta. I wonder...?" Desmond—who had mostly been talking to distract himself—noticed with satisfaction how his simple tactics were working.

"We'll write tomorrow—right?" he said. "Even better—great idea!—I'll head to Jaipur myself for Christmas break. There's some really great pig-sticking out there."

The happy thought turned out to be a brilliant move. In talking about plans and projects, Roy almost became his vibrant self again: for one blessed hour, he forgot that he was dead, damned, and finished—the ghost of a 'Might-Have-Been.'

About five weeks later, Roy sat alone—very completely and desolately alone—in a whitewashed, uninviting room that clearly had the feel of a dák bungalow; from the rickety side table at his elbow to the board of printed rules that decorated the bare mantelpiece. The only bright spot in the room was the log fire that made friendly crackling sounds and cast flickering shadows on the dingy white walls. However, the fire's warmth was overshadowed by the dim, unpleasant light from the lamp that seemed designed to give off as little light as possible while creating a strong, unpleasant smell—with foul kerosene, no less.

Dák bungalows had seemed like a lot of fun during his time off, when he and Lance laughed about their well-known shortcomings. But it was a completely different story to deal with the forced solitude on the outskirts of Chitor, hundreds of miles away from Kohat and the Regiment; to feel like the only living person in a series of empty rooms—since the servants lived in their own little community nearby. Solitude, in the right mood and the right setting, was nourishment for his soul; but the intense loneliness of the dák bungalow kind was not part of the deal. For four years, he had felt like he was part of a larger purpose; closely connected to his regiment—a tight-knit brotherhood in action. Now, just being an unattached individual strangely heightened his sense of isolation. Despite his individuality, he was no egoist; in fact, he loved people. Filled with the spirit of adventure, yet by nature, he was reluctant to walk the lonely path.

It had been his own choice—if you could even call it that—starting out this way instead of in the welcoming atmosphere of the Jaipur Residency. But was there really such a thing as choice? The truth was, he had just followed an irresistible urge, and tomorrow he would be glad he did. Tonight, after that endless journey, his head hurt like crazy. He felt as limp as a wet rag; his nerves were all over the place... Maybe those annoying doctors weren’t as clueless as they appeared. He cursed himself for being spineless and ineffective—messing around with nerves when he had been fortunate enough to survive four years of war with all his limbs and faculties intact. Two minor wounds, a brief collapse from sheer exhaustion and misery shortly after his mother’s death, a bout of chronic dysentery, during which he had somehow managed to stay relatively fit for duty—that was his record of physical damage in a war that had shattered countless lives.

But there are mental scars, and healing them is a slow, complicated process. Roy, with his delicate sense of beauty and his almost obsessive aversion to pain, had suffered deeply, while tougher people hardly felt anything at all. Yet it was the strong ones who fell apart—which was just one of the many surprises of a War that completely shattered beliefs and forced modern individuals to face the toughest tests of faith at a time when Science had nearly stripped them of faith in anything beyond themselves.

Roy, fortunately for him, still believed; and his open mind had been constantly capturing experiences to be shared later in writing, so that She could fully enjoy them. A short book—published at her request in 1916—had gained quite a bit of attention in the literary world. At the time, he had criticized the hasty decision to publish; but later, it was a wonderful memory to cherish the happiness he brought her that last Christmas—the very last....

On the battlefield, if there were nerve-wracking moments, there were also times when the spirit of his Rajput ancestors came alive in him, when he felt no fear, horror, or pity. There were also moments of pure joy, during some quiet break, when larks filled the sky with music; when he found himself alone, marveling at the haunting beauty of dawn over the battered and torn fields of death; or when he embraced his natural talent for scouting that quickly brought him recognition and fulfilled his craving for adventure.

And he always, without fail, followed his mother's last request. As a British officer, he fought for the Empire. As Roy Sinclair—son of Lilámani—he fought for the values of Home and Beauty—true beauty of mind, body, and soul—against ugliness, excess, and the corrupting spirit that could taint the very places of God.

And whenever he went into battle, he thought about Chitor. In his mind, he donned the saffron robe, symbolizing 'no surrender.' Being captured was the one outcome he couldn't imagine facing: yet that very fate had happened to him and Lance in Mesopotamia—the result of a bold and successful raid.

Returning, despite facing unexpected challenges, they found themselves caught off guard, with their small number of men—outnumbered, with no way to escape.

For three months, which felt more like years, they had lost all sense of personal freedom—the essential part of the soul. They had suffered through misery, near starvation, and sometimes other things that a person can’t even bring themselves to talk about or remember: particularly the horrible feeling of being powerless—and hated. From the start, they had kept their minds busy with clever plans for escape that, at times, felt like a shameful abandonment of their comrades, whom they could neither help nor save. But when—like a miracle—the much-desired opportunity came, nothing on earth could have held them back....

It had been an exhilarating experience, requiring all their physical speed and agility, along with a mix of calm yet daring bravery. And it had ended successfully; the good news was sent back home to mothers who were waiting and praying. But Roy's nerves had been more affected than Desmond's. A sudden fever had fully exhausted him. And it was in that moment of weakness that Fate struck him with her most powerful weapon....

He hadn't even heard that his mom was sick. He had just gotten her excited reply to his message—and that very night, she appeared to him, clearly, as he was drifting off to sleep.

There she stood by his bed, in her mother-of-pearl gown and sari; clear in every detail; lips slightly parted; a hovering smile in her eyes. And all around her was a shimmering glow, like moonbeams, enhancing her beauty, yet making her seem distant; so that he could neither touch her nor say a word of welcome. He could only stare and stare, while his heart beat in long, slow hammering strokes, with a double throb in between.

With a silent longing, her hands reached out to him. She bent down, lower and lower. A soft breeze seemed to brush against his forehead as if her lips, gently touching it, had whispered a blessing.

Then, darkness suddenly fell—and a deep sleep....

He woke up late the next morning: woke to a shocking, awful realization that his vision had been no dream; that her true self had come to him—that she was gone....

When the harsh truth hit him, he realized, without any shock, that on the night of his vision, her spirit had moved on....

It was a severe pneumonia attack that finally took her down. But really, the War had been her downfall, just like it had been for many other sensitive women who couldn't toughen up to the endless horrors and tragedies. Her heart ached for everyone else's pain as if it were her own. And what she endured personally was already more than she could handle, without adding the grief of others she didn’t even know. George—her baby—had gone down with the Queen Mary. Jerry, sent off to France too early, had crashed behind the German lines, and after months of uncertainty, they found out he was alive but wounded—in German custody. Tara, dedicated to the Women’s Hospital in Serbia, was always in danger, surrounded by unimaginable horrors. Nevil, facing septic poisoning, had only narrowly escaped losing his left forearm. It wasn’t until he was invalided out, near the end of 1916, that he realized—too late—that she was slowly destroying herself with work that could only ease her anxiety up to a certain point.

But it was the shock of Roy's imprisonment and the agony of uncertainty that finally pushed her nerves to the limit; so that the sudden attack of pneumonia had taken her life within a week. And Roy, knowing her too well, had figured it out, despite his father's brave attempt to protect him from the reality.

His first letter from that grieving father was nothing short of a revelation to the son, who thought he understood him: a bold assumption when it comes to any human being. There had been more than one such revelation in the many letters that both uplifted and overwhelmed him, significantly boosting his pride in being her son. But outshining all of them, and completely unexpected, was a letter from her, written in those final days, when the others still held onto hope, but she knew——

It arrived with his father's in a small, gold-embroidered bag—filled with fragrance, color, and beautiful needlework, all a reminder of her. Along with it came the other item, her talisman since his birth. As it reached him while his mind and body were still spinning from the overwhelming feeling of loss, it eased his suffering and turmoil like her fingers grazing his forehead; it had removed the pain from death and stripped the grave of its triumph....

To night, in his loneliness, he pulled the slim bag from an inner pocket and read again with his eyes the words that were etched in his memory.

"Your devoted Mom."

The last lines blurred and merged together. Despite her warning, tears would come. Cold and unnoticed, they slid down his cheeks as he folded his treasure and put it away with the others. It went to his head a little, just as she had predicted, although ultimately it was overshadowed by her own treasure, which she had left him, a legacy he couldn't hold dearer. In life, she had been a messenger of God. In death, she remained his angel of comfort and healing. She had urged him to share her faith, and he never had felt entirely alone. Supported by that inner belief, he had somehow adjusted to the oddity of a life without her physical presence. A human being in a painful world, like an insect in a dangerous one, survives mainly through that continuous, unconscious miracle of adaptation. As much as he longed to see his father and Christine, he hadn’t asked to go home. There were tough moments when he wondered if he could ever face that challenge. He truly hoped they understood. Their letters gave the impression that they did. Jeffers clearly did.

And Tara? Her late letter, from the remote areas of Serbia, showed in every line that she understood all too well. Tara, not long before, had gone through her own trauma—the death, in a fierce air battle, of her second brother Atholl, who had been her champion and hero since childhood. So when it was Roy's turn, her deep sympathy and understanding were extended like wings to protect him, if possible, from the worst, as she had experienced it.

For that one time, she tossed aside her adult reservations and wrote directly from her eager, passionate heart to the Bracelet-bound Brother, who she hadn’t seen in years, yet was forever connected to her by an unbreakable memory; and now they were linked even closer by shared grief.

The comfort Roy felt from that spontaneous, Tara-like outpouring was greater than she realized—greater than he could ever let her know. The old closeness they once had was never fully re-established since the day of his thoughtless, youthful proposal—how he viewed it now. They had only met once when he was home for Christmas. The second time, they missed each other. Throughout the War, they wrote to each other sporadically; however, her letters, while affectionate and sisterly, lacked a certain something that influenced how he responded. He had once been bold enough to assume their special relationship meant more. But he was no longer a boy, and he had his pride.

He sometimes wondered what it would be like if they met again. Would he fall in love with her? She was amazing—there was no one like her. But he realized now, just as she had instinctively known back then, that his feelings didn’t mean he was in love. Real feelings need to be ignited and warmed by passion. And it’s hard to fall in love when there’s six thousand miles of ocean between you. None of the girls he had danced with or ridden with since arriving in India had affected him like that. Marriage was also a big deal for him. Someday, he figured it would become a pressing personal issue. But there was still so much to do first; and girls were tricky to deal with.

Unsuspected by him, the final relationship with his mother—while it intensified his longing for a woman's nurturing tenderness and understanding—restrained his heart by establishing a standard that the modern girl rarely aimed for, let alone achieved.

And now she was gone, yet in some strange, captivating way, she still kept him grounded. Occasionally, she came back to him in dreams or when he was just about to fall asleep. Those dreams, or visions—they remained as fresh in his memory as any moment he experienced while awake; and they always left him with a strong feeling of having connected with her true essence. He became increasingly convinced that she still found joy in "the blossom and fruit of his life"; that even in death, she was closer to him than many living mothers are to their sons.

A strange experience: the strangest part, perhaps, was how easily he accepted it as just the way things are. The intuitive mind is rarely analytical. Besides, he had seen; he had felt; he knew. That’s the unbeatable argument of the mystic. Against beliefs formed from strong, repeated experiences, the chatter of logic and the formulas of pure intellect crash like waves against a rock—and with just as little effect. The intensity and persistence of Roy's experience left no room for troubling doubts; nor could he have tolerated such skepticism in others, natural as it might be, if they hadn’t seen, felt, or known.

So he neither wrote nor spoke about it to anyone. He could barely have kept it from Tara, the sister who had shared all his thoughts and dreams; but the adult Tara had become too distant in every sense for such an intimate and sacred confidence. He would have liked to share everything with his father, remembering her last command; but Sir Nevil's later letters—though always sympathetic—didn't really inspire open conversations. For now, he seemed to have locked himself away with his grief. Perhaps he, more than anyone else, had found it hardest to understand Roy's failure to ask for short leave to come home. He had said very little about it. And Roy—with the instinct of sensitive souls to mirror others—had also said little: maybe too little. The less said might be the quickest way to fix things; but there are times when it can make a rift even wider.

In the end, he felt compelled to mention his dream experiences and left it up to his father to decide if he wanted to say anything more.

And in response, I got a short yet heartfelt reply: "Thank you, my dearest Boy, for sharing what you did. It's comforting to know you're finding some peace—if only in your dreams. You're lucky to be built that way. After all, when it comes to comfort and direction, your ability to believe in that kind of connection defines its reality. As for me, I'm still completely and hopelessly alone. Maybe someday she'll reach me despite my little faith. People who turn to mediums and the automatic writing trend are beyond me, though I understand the temptation. You might recall a line from Maeterlinck——'We have to feel our way carefully and be sure of every step, as we cross the threshold. And even after crossing it, where can we find certainty——? One cannot discuss these matters—the solitude is too immense.' That reflects how I feel about it—at the moment."

The last had given Roy the feeling that his loneliness, though devastating, was a kind of refuge, not to be shared just yet, even with his son. And, in light of such isolation, it felt almost harsh to elaborate on his own strong sense of closeness with her who had always been their Jewel of Delight.

So, over time—in the long months away from everyone—his connection with her started to feel closer and more real than his connection with the others, who were still physically present but felt oddly distant from his inner life.

Tonight—after reading both letters—that feeling of closeness seemed stronger than ever. Could it be that India's appeal was a hint from her that for now his work was here? By the unseen forces that shape people's lives, he had been led to the place he longed for; and back home, neither his family nor his country seemed to really need him. Whether India needed him or not, he definitely needed her. And it was the intensity of that feeling that had made him hesitate.

But now, at last, he knew without a doubt that, for all his thoughts—or was it his conscience?—might debate and get tangled up, he had been pulled to Rajputana, as irresistibly as if that vast desert area were the moon and he was a small wave on the shore.

With a big sigh, he got up, yawned widely, and shivered. Better go to bed and get some sleep: a bed that doesn’t rattle and jolt and smash your brain to bits. Things would definitely look a lot different in the morning.

The stark, white bedroom had a French bed with brass rails—a nice surprise in a dák bungalow, especially after three rough nights on an Indian train. Exhausted to the point of delirium, Roy promised himself he would sleep through the night, enjoy a hearty Anglo-Indian breakfast, and then be himself again. With that hope, he rested his head on the least lumpy part of the pillow—and in under five minutes, he found himself frustratingly wide awake.

Though the bed frame didn’t reject him or invade his personal space, the eerie clanking and vibrations still set his nerves on edge and played unsettling tunes in his mind. Even though he kept his eyes tightly closed, sleep—the much-desired escape—seemed to linger just beyond his reach, always elusive. His body was completely worn out, while his mind was unusually awake. Every shift in position, which was meant to be the last, lost its effectiveness within three minutes, until the sheet—too small for the mattress—bunched up into hills and valleys, making everything worse. Starting off like this, he knew he could keep it up cheerfully until the early hours; and tonight, of all nights——!

Even with his eyes closed, he was still aware that the doorway to his verandah framed a wide panel of moonlight—the almost unbelievable moonlight of India. He had flung it open as usual and rolled up the chick. A bedroom that was completely sealed made him feel suffocated, trapped; so he had to put up with the moonlight, and when the world was bathed in her radiance, sleeping felt almost sinful. But tonight, moon or no moon, he craved sleep like an opium addict craves his magic pills—because he wanted to dream. It had been weeks since he had last seen his mother. But surely she must be nearby in his loneliness, somehow aware of the deep longing he felt to see or sense her, to assure him that—in spite of doubts and uncertainties—he had made the right choice. He became convinced that as soon as he drifted off to sleep, he would see her. It intensified his insomnia from mere discomfort to a frustrating, hostile presence keeping him from her—until complete exhaustion wiped everything away; and even as he hovered on the edge of sleep, she was there....

She was lying in her hammock under the beech trees, wearing her apple-blossom sari, with sunlight flickering through the leaves. He saw his own figure moving toward her, without any surprise, able to see and hear himself as if he were another person while still feeling like himself.

He heard his own voice say, softly and passionately, "Dear little Mother—I am here. Throughout the battle, I thought of Chitor. Now—out of the battle—I have come to Chitor."

Then he was on his knees beside her, and her fingers, light as dandelion fluff, brushed through his hair in a soft touch that always calmed his restless spirit. Without saying a word, somehow she seemed to understand everything in his heart—the confusion and uncertainty; the pull of Home and the fear of it; the struggle to make things clear to his father. And the magic of her touch eased all his inner turmoil, all his headaches and heartaches. But when he stood up impulsively and tried to pull her into his arms—she was gone; everything was gone; ... the hammock, the beech trees, the sunlight....

He was standing alone on a moonlit plain, marked with shadows from the dák jungle and date palms; and rising out of it unexpectedly—as he had seen it the night before—was the dark silhouette of Chitor; the sacred, solitary ghost of a city, connected to his happiest childhood memories and his mother's heroic stories. The enormous rock was steep and fortified, every contour visible. The walls, crumbling in places, revealed ghostly traces of ruins beyond; and towering above everything, Khumba Rána's nine-storied Tower of Victory reached a giant finger toward the indifferent sky. Watching it, captivated, trying unsuccessfully to make out the details, he was jolted by one of the strangest feelings he had ever experienced: a revival of the long-ago dream feeling, an odd sense of familiarity—he just knew! Without a doubt, he recognized every line of that looming shadow, every curve of the hills. He knew the exact location of the old bridge over the Gamberi River. From where he stood, he could confidently navigate to the Padal Pol—the fortified entrance to the Road of Seven Gates;—the path that had seen, three times in three hundred years, the heroic choice of sacrifice, the devastating rite of Johur:—the final rush of every male defender, wearing the saffron robe and coronet of one who embraces death as a bride; the horrific slaughter at the lowest gate, where they all fell before the victors entered...

The horror and wild excitement of it all surged through his veins, making him faintly wonder—was it really him, Roy Sinclair, who was standing there recalling these things—or someone else...?

And before that wild question could figure itself out—there he was, lying wide awake again in his messy bed, on the bumpy pillow, staring at the large patch of moonlight shining through his open door.

Not morning yet, damn it all! But the tiredness and loneliness were completely gone. It was always like this when she came to him like that. He knew it without saying, and she knew it too, for a visit. There was no illusion of having her back completely; just the comforting feeling that she was still close by. There was also, this time, a burning curiosity and impatience that couldn't be ignored.

Switching on his flashlight, he checked his watch. Almost four-thirty—why not ...? It was not far to the lower gate, and just a mile of winding road up to the city.

Thought and action happened almost at the same time. He was out of bed, standing in the doorway. The moon's clear brightness seemed to fill his mind, clearing away the cobwebs and banishing any desire for sleep. He loved the mysterious spirit of night just like most people love the bright face of morning; and in this way, perhaps, he was distinctly from the East. In a place where the sun kills thousands, the moon comes in triumph: and Roy decided right then and there that he would take his first look at Chitor in the magic of her light. Whether it was really his first look or not, he would probably figure that out when he got there.

His train-basket gave him a quick cup of tea, some biscuits, and a lucky hard-boiled egg. He had no hesitation in waking Bishun Singh to saddle Suráj or bothering the soldiers stationed at the gates. His grandfather had written about him to the Maharana of Udaipur—a distant cousin: and he had permission to come and go as he pleased during his stay. He planned to stay on the rock until dawn; from the ninth floor of Khumba Rána's Tower, he would watch the sunrise over Chitor...

Half an hour later, he was in the saddle, trotting down the empty road; Terry, a quick-moving shadow behind him; Bishun Singh stayed behind to finish his night's rest. Ahead of him rose the attraction that had pulled him out of bed at this ungodly hour—the massive rock fortress, three miles long and less than a mile wide, aptly compared to a battleship cutting through the restless sea of bush-covered hills below it.

Riding quickly through new Chitor—a small, dirty town that was fast asleep—he reached the fortified gateway. He was challenged by drowsy soldiers, gave his name, and moved on—into another world; a world that became more familiar with every hundred yards he climbed.

At one point, he stopped next to two rough monuments, the graves of the brave pair who fought and died, like Rajputs, in that last terrible battle when Akbar's forces surged in, over the bodies of eight thousand saffron-robed warriors, and turned Chitor into a place of desolation forever. One—a mere boy of six—was the only son of his family. Beside him, spear in hand, fought his widowed mother and young wife; and in death, they were not separated. The other, Jaimul of Bednore, was a distant ancestor of his mother. How many times she had told him the story—proudly adding that, as long as Rajasthan existed, the names of those two would shine brightly in the history of time, like stars in the sky.

Through one doorway after another—protected by a twenty-foot wall with openings for gunfire—he moved, like a silent shadow. Gradually, he was overcome once again by the mixed feelings of his dream—was it really him riding, or was it that other person, returning to the sacred city after a long time away? For a moment, he could hardly distinguish between the two. But—what did it matter? The incredible thrill of recognition was everything...

Around the seventh gateway, there was what looked like a village; shadowy, sleeping figures scattered around in the open—ghosts all. The only real presences were himself, Suráj, and Chitor, along with the quiet of the sleeping earth, watched over by unblinking stars. All around him, there was a stirring awareness of ancient, unchanging India; completely indifferent to transient visitors from the West; hidden, elusive, yet almost disturbingly real. So real, in that moment, to Roy, that—for a few incredible seconds—he didn’t realize he was riding through a city abandoned by humanity. Specters of houses and temples glided past him as he urged Suráj into a canter, heading straight for the main palace. There was news for the Rana—news about Akbar's army—that couldn't be delayed....

Not until Suráj stopped suddenly—right where the Palace had once stood in all its glory—did he realize where he was, just as abruptly as when he woke up in the French bed an hour ago.

Gone was the busy city he had imagined riding through; gone was the confusion of himself with that other self—how many centuries old? But the familiar appearance of the palace was no illusion; nor was the fact that he had instinctively raced toward it at full speed. Bastioned and sharply domed, it stood before him in stark outline; but inside, it was as empty as a skull; a place of ghosts. Suddenly, he felt the old childish fear of the dark that he had never fully outgrown. But fear or not, he had to explore it....

As his foot hit the ground, a soft hiss warned him he was intruding, and gripping Terry's collar, he froze while the whip-like shadow of death twisted across a strip of moonlight—and vanished. There was life—of a kind, in Chitor. So Roy moved cautiously as he went from room to room; fear of the dark forgotten in the strange allure of knowing what was going to happen without exception.

Through cracked walls and roofs, moonlight poured in, its ghostly brightness making every shadow stand out even more. And there, where kings and princes used to meet—watched by their women through ornate screens—there were no roofs or walls; just a group of marble pillars, as if gathered in a ghostly meeting. The deep silence and emptiness—not from yesterday, but from centuries—hit him personally. It hung over the rock; a haunting presence, the protective goddess of Chitor. There’s an emptiness in the open desert, in an untouched snowfield that lifts the soul and brings it face to face with God; but the emptiness of an abandoned city feels like a body without the spark of life:—'the silver cord loosed, the golden bowl broken, and the pitcher broken at the fountain ...'

Terry's loud bark, a squawk and a flapping of wings, startled him intensely and shook him all over. It felt almost sacrilegious—as if one were in a cathedral. Calling the intruder to heel, he got on and rode toward the Tower of Victory. The moon was setting in the west; and he had to see that expansive scene lit by moonlight. Then the dawn....

Once again leaving Suráj behind, he faced Khumba's Tower, untouched since the builder left it four centuries ago. Massive and imposing, it rose above him; hardly a foot of stone was uncarved, as far as he could see—examining the four-square base with the help of the moon and his flashlight. Carvings were everywhere—animal, human, and divine; a chaotic mix of impossible forms intricately intertwined; creepy in any light, and hideously so in the moonlight:—confusing, repulsive, frankly obscene. But even while his refined eye rejected it all, a tiny part of him sensed there was symbolic meaning in that chaotic sculpture, if only he could find the key.

Up and up, round and round the inner spiral staircase he climbed, in a creepy darkness, pierced by moonbeams that were almost as unsettling, coming through window-like openings in every side of each floor. With each burst of light, each flash of his flashlight in the pitch black, those crowding figures, bizarrely twisted, lunged at him again, sending shivers down his spine. Walls, window frames, door beams—the massive building was covered with them from bottom to top; a nightmare of dancing, twisting, frantic movement; only one calm face appearing at intervals—the Great God holding the wheel of Law....

Never had Roy appreciated Terry's company more, who, despite having a Celtic background, was not finding this extended practical joke amusing at all.

It was an indescribable relief to finally step out into the bright light and fresh, sweet morning air. The ninth floor, beneath the dome, was open on all four sides and pleasantly free of decoration. Not a single pretentious figure in sight. Just peaceful slabs of polished stone. There was also significance in this—could one grasp the builder's intentions?

On a slab near an arched opening, Roy gratefully sat down; while Terry, completely bored with the whole situation, curled up in a shadowy corner and fell fast asleep. "What an unfriendly little creature," thought Roy; and he quickly forgot about him.

For below him, in the silvery morning moonlight, lay Chitor; her shattered arches and battlements, her temples and palaces reduced to mere footstools for the gods. And beyond, and again beyond, lay the raw strength and desolation of northern Rajputana—white with poppy fields, dark velvet with scrub, jagged with volcanic rock outcrops; the stark warrior territory, battered by centuries of struggle and slaughter; using calamity as a sharpening stone for courage; effectively saying to friend and foe, 'Take me or leave me. You can't change me.'

The Border had captivated Roy. The Himalayas had controlled him. But this rugged, unappealing area of rock and sand, filled with horses and swords, chivalry and cruelty and boldness, undeniably captured his heart; it made him truly feel connected to everything around him.

On a day in that unforgettable summer, his mother had almost promised him that she would visit India again, if only to share the joy of making a pilgrimage with him to Chitor. And here he was, sitting alone at the top of Khumba Rána's Tower. That was just how life was...

Gradually, he felt a deep tiredness in both body and spirit; it was just a natural reaction from the excitement of his unusual adventure. His eyelids became heavy. In another moment, he would have fallen fast asleep, but he caught himself just in time. When he wanted it, it slipped away; now, uninvited, it came at him. But that wouldn’t work. He could sleep for hours. In the back of his mind lingered a strong belief that he was waiting for more than just the dawn...

To shake off his sleepiness, he got up, stretched, and walked back and forth a few times—and didn't sit down again. Crossing his arms, he leaned against the stone opening and stood there for a long time, taking in—with every part of his body and mind—the quiet, the mystery, the soft gray light, and the endless depths of shadow; his mind free of clear thoughts... his soul still, like a bird with its wings spread wide...

Was it just a fantasy, this slow build-up of his elevated mood, this exciting flutter in his heart, until it felt like some essential part of him was slowly being pulled up—into the vastness and the silence...?

And suddenly, in every nerve, he knew—he was not alone. In the apparent emptiness of the place, something, someone was nearby. Amazed but also thrilled, he held his breath; and a responding rush of excitement filled him from head to toe.

It was more than just a vague "sense of presence." Mixed in with the deep happiness that filled him—as the moonlight filled the desert—was an almost jarring awareness; not just the emotional impact of music or poetry; but certain knowledge that she was there with him in that upper room; her intangible warmth reaching towards him across a gap of empty space that neither of them could cross, despite their closeness, despite their desire....

If Lance had actually walked up those endless stairs and stood next to him, he couldn’t have felt more sure of his presence than he felt right now about her being there, her silent guarantee that he *had* made the right choice. He felt, if anything, even less real than she was.

For that short moment, his world felt empty of everything and everyone except for the two of them—so completely separated, yet so mysteriously connected.

Could he just see her to complete the wonder of it! But even though he focused on the spot where the 'feel of her' seemed to originate, he couldn’t see even a trace of her; only—was it just his imagination?—a hint of brighter light than ordinary moonlight—there, near the opposite archway?

He didn't dare move a muscle for fear of breaking the spell. Still, he couldn't completely hold back the emotion that surged within him, filling his ears with a soft roar like crashing waves.

"God bless you, little Mother!" he whispered, barely above a murmur—and waited; unsure of what to expect.

A whisper of a breeze brushed past him—truly a whisper, since the night was completely still. He could almost believe that if he reached out, he would touch her. But it was more about respect holding him back than fear.

And in the next moment, the place was empty. He was alone...

He felt the emptiness just as strongly as he had felt her presence. But the pain of her leaving was mixed with joy that finally his conscious mind understood her—a knowledge that no one could take away from him, even if she never returned. He had followed her wishes. He had kept his integrity intact and his spirit clear—and, look, the Light had shone through....

Understood. Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.

Impossible to tell how long he stood there. In those few moments of heightened existence, time ceased to exist. The ordinary sense of his surroundings faded. The inner sense of reality intensified in the same way; the reality of her presence felt even stronger because it was unseen....

When he finally regained his senses, the moon was gone. To the east, the sky was filled with a soft yellow light. It grew brighter and more intense until, in an instant, the sun burst forth from behind the hills, sharp and brilliant like a drawn sword.

A full minute, Roy stood there, his eyes and mind overwhelmed by the brightness. Then he knelt down and covered his face, staying that way for a long time, his entire being lifted in a silent joy of gratitude.

On a clear October afternoon, Roy sat alone with Thea Leigh in a shady corner of the Residency garden, smoking and chatting, feeling completely relaxed in body and very much at home in spirit. After the difficult goodbye to Desmond, it was a relief to be welcomed by his sister, who shared his strong courage and enthusiasm for life, and who was smiling at Roy now with the same hazel-grey eyes they both inherited from their father. But Thea's hair—her crowning glory—was uniquely hers. The color reminded him, with a pang, of autumn beech leaves in his own woods. It enhanced the vivid quality of her beauty and added to his enjoyment of watching her as she spoke.

Roy had arrived that morning, in the misty chill of dawn; he had enjoyed a long conversation with Colonel Leigh; had met Vernon and Phyllis, who were six and four; and also Flossie Eden, a sort of adopted daughter, who was twenty. After lunch, he announced his plan to ride out and rediscover the rose-red wonderland of his childhood dreams—the peacocks, elephants, crocodiles, and temple bells. However, Thea had advised patience, warning him of a harsh reality if he searched for his wonderland at such an glaringly unpoetic time of day.

"An early cup of tea, and a ride afterward," she suggested, in her best authoritative manner. "Only sunset, or the first light of dawn, can cast a spell over the civic virtues and artistic failures of Jaipur! I say this from the heart; because I rushed out too early; and, in the full brightness of the afternoon sun, your rose-red city looked like nothing on earth but a bizarre and amazing display of pink and white birthday cakes, laid out for a giant's tea-party! It almost seemed a shame that the giants never came to eat them. Vinx said I was inappropriate. Honestly, he was just jealous of my brilliant metaphor! Look at him now—bored to death with me, just because I'm speaking the truth!"

Colonel Leigh—a tall, thoughtful man who spoke little and listened intently—met her challenge with the patient smile of a husband who can be both amused and critical while still being devoted: a perfect combination in marriage.

"If you can handle Roy's impatience with your metaphors, I might start to respect them!" he said.

And she was soothing Roy's impatience now, with cigarettes, coffee, and the story of Arúna—'England-returned.' She had shared little in her letters; an unusual hint of caution learned from her husband, who doubted the wisdom of her daring venture into the complexities and jarring aspects of a semi-modern Hindu household. But Thea Leigh, daughter of Honor Desmond, felt a strong sense of duty to the ruling race. She firmly refused to maintain, in Jaipur, the correct official detachment of Anglo-India. Furthermore, she had a deep, instinctive understanding that couldn't be denied; who would know better than her husband, since it had saved him from himself. And now, having had Roy's attention for half an hour, she opened up to him completely about the tragic mess she was untangling in her own effective way.

"Arúna is the most precious thing," she told him—as he already knew. "And I really care about her. But sometimes I feel powerless. It's so difficult to connect with these gentle, mysterious Hindu women. Talk about English reserve! Still, I'm getting pretty good at guessing and reading between the lines; and I sense that your remarkable old grandfather is quite sadly out of his depth with that crowd of hidden women and gurus. Also, that old lady—Mátaji—can be quite a tough cookie. Of course, having lost her caste makes the poor girl's situation at home nearly impossible. Yet she stubbornly refuses to go through their awful rituals of restitution. And Miss Hammond—our female doctor at the hospital—supports her."

"Well played, Miss Hammond!" Roy said, and thinking of Arúna's cheerful letters (not a word about any problems), he felt a wave of sympathy for her. Could he—being family but not under the thumb of a controlling grandmother—find a way to help? It seemed so unfair that her joyful time in England should lead to such tragic outcomes. She wasn't someone meant for tragedy but for happiness, love, and joy. Yet, in the Hindu way of life, marriage was at the heart of her struggles.

To the power behind the scenes, it was a disgrace that the eldest granddaughter—at the ripe age of twenty-two—was neither a wife nor a mother. It would take a very progressive suitor to overlook that glaring issue. Obviously, a substantial dowry would need to be offered as compensation; and above all, social status had to be restored. As long as Arúna remained stubborn, nothing could be finalized; and her grandfather didn’t have the heart to enforce his wife's persistent demands. But while Indian women's options may be limited, their sharp instincts and deep understanding are often impressive; and this formidable old lady—skilled in the art of getting her way—was confident she could handle her husband's excuses and Arúna's outright defiance.

She didn’t take into account the daughter of Sir Theo Desmond, who, at this moment, took sudden and unexpected action.

"You see, the child came regularly to my gatherings," she explained to Roy, who was no longer impatient and was fully engaged. "Sometimes I had her by herself for reading and music; and it was heartbreaking to watch her slowly fading away in front of me. So, finally, in desperation, I let loose—like Vinx politely puts it—and started asking some tough questions, without worrying about etiquette. After all, the poor thing has no mother. And I never ignore a feeling that comes from the heart. I believe I was just in time. It seemed the old battle-ax and her widowed sister-in-law were in touch with a potential husband. So they had tightened the screws again, with the help of the family guru. He had just honored them with a special visit, expecting to find the lost sheep renewed and eager for his blessing. Shocked by the story of her stubbornness, he declared that, unless he heard differently within a week, he would put a nameless curse on her; in which case, her respectable grandmother would not let the poor child eat or sleep under her respectable roof."

Roy's hand tightened unexpectedly on the arm of his chair. "Darn that guy! It's mostly the psychological impact they rely on. They’re not stupid; and even guys like Grandfather—who can’t possibly believe this nonsense—seem helpless to resist them. Does he know all this?"

"It's hard to say. They're so secretive—even the most enlightened—when it comes to personal matters. Without being rude, they just keep one at a distance. Poor Arúna was terrified for having told me. She completely broke down. But she had no intention of giving in. It's surprising the toughness you find beneath their gentle exterior. She mentioned she would rather starve or drown. I told her she shouldn’t think like that; that I would talk to Sir Lakshman myself—oh, very diplomatically, of course! Then, all at once, I had an idea. Some sort of secretarial work for me would sound quite believable. (Did you know—I’m gaining a reputation, in a small way, for my enthusiasm for Indian women?) Based on that, I could suggest a few rooms in the Residency; and she could still continue working at the hospital with Miss Hammond, giving me certain afternoons. I thought it was perfect—until I shared it with Vinx and saw him raise his left eyebrow. He was sure it 'wouldn't work'; Sir Lakshman ... my position ... and all that. I said I planned to make it work—and his eyebrow twitched even more. So I gently reminded him that he hadn't held Arúna sobbing in his arms, and he wasn't a mother! Which was undeniable.—And, my dear Roy, I had a hectic week of it, navigating Sir Lakshman and Arúna and the honorable grandmother—strictly from the shadows! I’m sure she’s anti-English. I've got with all the other high-borns; but I can't get close to her. However—with a brave face and a careful approach, I managed to succeed. So I hope the holy man will transfer his powerful curse to me. Naturally, just as I sorted everything out, I received Lance's letter about you. But I couldn’t back out. And I suppose it's all right?"

"Well, of course." Roy had no doubts about that. "What a family you are! I was hoping to reconnect with Arúna."

"You will. But you need to be careful. Jaipur isn’t exactly Oxford. Brother and cousin are almost the same thing to them; but still——"

"Is she at the hospital now?" Roy interrupted unnecessarily. Her insistence on keeping things quiet—with Arúna, of all people—seemed to him like pointless worrying and not like Thea at all. And by now, he was more eager to see Arúna than to see Jaipur.

"No. But she seemed hesitant to come out for lunch. So I told her that if she came out afterward, she would find you and me by ourselves. She’s seemed happier and less delicate lately. Even Vinx agrees that the situation has proven my point. But of course, it’s just a backup plan—a transition——"

"To what?" Roy challenged her with unexpected intensity.

"That's my ultimate puzzle. Maybe you can help me figure it out. Sometimes I wonder if she really knows herself, what she wants from life... But maybe I just don't have the key to her uncertainties..."

At that moment, a familiar figure emerged from the shadows of the porch and walked down the shallow steps lined with begonia pots, moving with the effortless grace that Roy recognized all too well. She wore a carnation pink dress and sari. Her golden shoes sparkled with every step, and she thoughtfully twirled a square Japanese parasol—decorated with almond blossoms and butterflies on the lightest blue silk.

"Is their instinct for that kind of thing unconscious, I wonder?" murmured Thea. "You’ll have half an hour with her to gather some insights. Please help me if you can, Roy. But—be discreet!"

Roy barely heard her. He had suddenly gone very still—his gaze locked on Arúna. The Indian dress, the way she held her veiled head, the relaxed grace of it hit him so hard that tears stung his eyelids; and, for one intoxicating moment, he felt himself, in spirit, being carried across the gap of the War to that cherished dream world of youth, when everything was vibrant and all the nearby sights sparkled with the morning dew. Only behind a mask-like stillness could he conceal that overwhelming rush of feeling; and if Broome had been watching him, he would have seen the subtle aura of the East take over his face.

Thea only noticed his sudden distraction and the white knuckles of his left hand. She also realized, with a slight twinge of anxiety, that he had simply not heard what she said. Was it possible—could Roy be influencing Arúna's uncertainties? Would his arrival bring new complications? It was too distracting to be accountable for anything like that....

Without saying a word, he got up and quickly moved to meet her. Thea noticed that as he got closer, all her practiced calm seemed to disappear; and when they finally came together, they looked so happy, yet obviously unsettled, that Thea felt ridiculously unsure of how to casually step back. Taking care of Sir Lakshman's granddaughter was no small task: at least she had done well to warn Roy. These young Indian women...!

It was a welcome sight to see Floss Eden in her short tennis skirt and sun hat, rushing across the lawn with her sporty walk; racquet swinging, her round face flushed from the workout.

"I say, Aunt Thea—you’re needed just put,"[6] she announced cheerfully. "Verney's in one of his moods—and Mr. Neill will soon be in a bad mood too, if he’s not held back. Instead of helping with the balls, he’s been pacing up and down the porch; two tin buckets tied to him with string, clattering behind—making a terrible noise. Shouting didn’t help at all. So I rushed in and grabbed him. 'Verney—drop it! What are you doing?' I said firmly; and he looked up at me like an angel. 'Flop, don't stop me. I'm walking through the valley of the shadow, and goodness and mercy are following me all the days of my life.' That's the result of teaching the Bible to innocent kids!"

Thea's laugh turned into a sigh. "I told Miss Mills. But the kid is getting out of control. I guess that means he should go home. Mr. Neill," she explained to Roy, "is Vinx's shorthand secretary: intense, but essential to the Great Work! So I have to rush off and deal with my troublesome son."

Her eyes were trying to convey the warning he didn’t catch. It was pointless. His focus was on Arúna.

"She's amazing, isn't she?" the girl whispered, watching her go. Then quickly, half-shyly, she looked up at him. "Even more amazing that you've finally come, and that I'm here too—only because of her. She told you?"

"Yeah. A bit. I want to hear more."

"Right now, I’d prefer to avoid sad things—now that you’re here. If only Dyán were here too—like the days at Oxford. And oh, Roy, I’m sorry I never wrote... about her. I did make an effort. But it was so hard... And—you knew—?"

"Yeah—I knew," he said in a restrained voice. He couldn't trust himself on that topic just yet. Every curve and fold of her sari, and the glimpses of her dark hair, every movement, every quirky turn of phrase made his nerves buzz with a mix of ecstasy and pain. Right now, he just wanted to be aware of her; to hold on to the sweet illusion that the years apart were just a dream. That illusion was made stronger by the simple fact that she looked exactly the same in every detail. Was it just coincidence? Or had she held on to those memories all this time? The only thing that showed age was her face. Although it still had that fresh look, her cheekbones were a bit too prominent, lacking the healthy glow beneath her dusky skin. But her smile could still make up for all the imperfections.

"Let's sit down," he said after a tense silence. "And tell me—what happened to Dyán?"

She shook her head. "Oh—if only we could know. It's really pointless, after all, trying to push away sadness!" She sank into her chair and looked up at him. "The more you try to push it away, the more it just flows in from everywhere. Everything is so broken and confused because of this terrible War. In the beginning, they promised everything would be made new; East and West united for sure. But here at home, while the good people were fighting, the worst ones were too busy with nasty gossip and false talk. Even holy men, behind the curtain...."

"As bad as that, huh?" asked Roy, pulled away from his own feelings by the topic that mattered most to him. "And you really think Dyán is involved with that group?"

"Yes, we are scared... It's a shame he came back from France too soon, because they have to amputate half of his left arm. Then—you heard—he went to Calcutta?"

"Yeah, I wrote back then. He didn’t reply. I haven’t heard anything since."

She nodded. Tears suddenly filled her eyes. "Always now ... no answer. It's like trying to talk to someone who's dead. Grandfather worries he wasn't just studying art. You know how he gets so fired up. And he might easily fall for those guys who spin words like spider webs. He was also really upset about losing his arm, by some stupid little accident; and there was bitterness about that ... about Tara...."

Roy started. "Lord—was it Tara?" In an instant, he pictured the walled lane leading to New College, Dyán's bitter mood, and his confusing change of heart... Looking back now, it seemed painfully obvious; but, through the shimmering haze of his own dreams, he had only seen Dyán in one way. Maybe that was for the best. Even now, the thought shocked and frustrated him. Tara! The audacity of it...!

"You didn’t know—never thought?... Poor Dyán!" One fingertip sneakily wiped away a tear that was sliding down the side of her nose.

"I’m feeling really silly right now," she said apologetically. "He only talked about it much later, after he returned wounded from France. Then I realized the bitterness was still there, distorting the noble thoughts in his heart. That’s the issue with Dyán. First—nothing is good enough for England. But too much fierce love can lead to too much fierce hate—especially if they poison his mind with clever words wrapped in grand discussions about religion——"

"How long has it been since you heard? Do you have an address?" Roy didn't want to support her vulnerable state.

"Six months now." She blinked back her tears without showing any emotion. "No word at all. No address since he left Calcutta. Last week, I wrote to the office of a newspaper there because he once mentioned that the editor gave him work. I poured out all the pain in my heart. If that letter reaches him, he has to respond."

"Well, if it does, I promise you this much;—I'll find him—somehow, wherever he is——"

"Oh, Roy! I hoped—I knew——!" She pressed her hands together to hide their shaking, and the look in her eyes was almost one of adoration.

Roy spoke with the confident coolness of his father's lineage, and with no clue about how he was going to keep his hasty promise. "I'll do my best, anyway," he added more seriously. "But then there's you—your home situation——"

She turned her hands outward with a familiar gesture of her culture. "That silly sadness we can push away. What does anything matter—right now? I rest—I breathe—I am here——!" Her smile burst forth, sudden and radiant. "It's almost like England—this big green garden, the kids, and the sound of playing tennis. Let’s be young again. For a little while, let’s forget that outside is Jaipur and the desert—dusty, hot, and harsh; dark places filled with secret and terrifying things. Here we are safe. Here it’s almost England!"

Her brave charm affected him deeply, and her playful side suited her so wonderfully that Roy went along with her mood without hesitation....

When his tea came, she hosted with a captivating blend of shyness and cheerful significance, matching his lively comments with the quick wit of their old days. And when Suráj was announced—"Oh, please—can I see him?" she eagerly pleaded like a child.

Suráj happily let unfamiliar fingers stroke his soft nose, gentle as rose petals. Then Roy jumped into the saddle, and Arúna watched him leave—saddle and dog following close behind—a graceful, solitary figure, shaded by her sheer parasol.

At a curve in the driveway, where a guard stood up straight, he turned for a final salute. Her responding gesture may or may not have been meant for him. She certainly understood the importance of being discreet. Because, after leaving the tea table, they had moved from the fantasy of 'almost England' into the gritty reality of Jaipur.

A mile, or less, of tree-lined road sloped gently from the Residency gate to the walled City of Victory, backed by rugged, reddish-grey hills of the Aravalli range, almost hidden among the leafy tops of banyan, acacia, and neem trees—a dusty, organized oasis, standing firm against the slow approach of the desert.

North and east stretched the screen of low hills with their creeping lines of stonework; but from the south and west, the softly advancing thing crept up to the city walls, through the gates, covering every twig and leaf and lattice with a fine white dust of death. Shadeless and colorless, as far as the eye could see, it rose and fell in long, rolling waves; as if some wizard, at the dawn of time, had turned a living ocean into lifeless sand, where nothing thrived except camel thorn, the ak plant, and skeletal cactus bushes—their branches frozen in strange poses.

But on the road itself was enough life and color—parrots darting from tree to tree, like visible and vocal emeralds; village women wrapped in red and yellow veils; prancing Rajput knights, straight from the Middle Ages; ox-carts and camels—countless camels, with flapping lips and scornful eyes; a slow-moving stream of life, rising out of the landscape and flowing, from dawn to dusk, through the seven Gates of Jaipur. And there, on the low hills beyond the walls, he spotted the famous Tiger Fort and the marble tomb of Jai Singh—who built the rose-red City; challenging the desert, like Canute the sea; saying, in stone and mortar, 'Here shall your proud waves be halted!' As he approached the fortified gateway, Roy noticed how every inch of flat surface was smoothly covered, every opening filled with sand. He wondered whether the final victory would be with the desert or the city...?

Close to the walls, sand and dust were blown into a deep drift; or was it a forgotten pile of rags? Suddenly, with a sick feeling, he saw the rags move and shift. Arms emerged—if you could call them that—attached to gaunt, shadowy faces. And from that human pile came a trembling wail, "Maharáj! Maharáj!"

"What is it, Bishun Singh?" he asked sharply of the sais, trotting at his stirrup.

"Only the famine, Hazúr. Not a big issue this year, they say. But from the villages, these people come crawling to the city, believing the Maharáj has plenty and will share."

"Is he generous?"

Bishun Singh's gesture seemed to dismiss unnecessary curiosity. "The Maharaj is great, but the people are like flies. If their karma is good, they find a few handfuls; if it's bad—they die."

Roy said nothing more. That simple statement was as final as a dropped stone. But, when he got to the gateway, he scattered a handful of loose corn.

Instantly, a shout went up: "He gives money for food! Jai déa Maharáj!"[7] Not just arms, but whole skeletons emerged, writhing and scrambling, with hands reduced to mere claws. A few of the bravest grabbed at Roy's stirrup; Bishun Singh swatted them away as if they were just flies.

Unresisting, they staggered and fell against each other, like bowling pins: and Roy, who despised the man, turned away sharply. But scolding was pointless. One could do nothing. That was what frustrated him. One could only move on; mentally pushing them aside—like Bishun Singh.

Spectres disappeared as he and Suráj became part of the lively crowd on the vast main street, which had broad strips of carved stone; one side was bathed in sunlight, while the other was in shadow. The colors and movement; the view of pink-washed houses dotted with white flowers; the bright muslins, the small turbans, and the unique swagger of the Rajput descendants brought back memories of his ancestors that had once overwhelmed him in Chitor. The sights, sounds, and smells—the sharp blend of spices, dust, and animals—hit him with a familiar yet powerful nostalgia: fruit and corn shops filled with pyramids of yellow, red, and ochre, and the plump brown bunnia in the middle; stores gleaming with brasswork and Jaipur enamel; latticed windows, low arches, glimpses into shaded courtyards; passing figures of veiled women; everyday women, unveiled, winnowing grain, or balancing baskets of sacred cow dung on their heads, moving like queens...

And the animals—! Almost extinct in today's machine-filled cities, here they thrived, both visibly and audibly. Asia has a close, if not always gentle, relationship with its animals, and Roy’s broad affection embraced them all. Horses came first— a long way first. But the bullocks had their appeal too: the elegant, trotting zebus with their horns painted red and green. And the hefty, swaying elephants—sensitive beings, anxious about their own size, splendidly adorned. Then there—a glimpse of the jungle, amidst casual goats, chickens, and stray dogs—were the royal cheetahs, led on leashes; walking gracefully between scarlet attendants, looking just like charming old ladies with blue hoods tied under their chins. Following their grandeur were two overloaded donkeys, struggling on mismatched legs, weighed down with even larger loads, with plump laundry men carelessly perched on their backs. Above all, Roy’s eyes sparkled at the jeweled shine of peacocks, rivaling in reverence the true lords of Jaipur—Shiva's holy bulls. Some were milk-white with onyx eyes, others black and defiant, strolling among the open storefronts, collecting tolls and blocking traffic—self-assured, arrogant, untouchable...

And, at regular intervals, like off notes in a series of melodies, there appeared wrought-iron gas lamps equipped with electric bulbs!

So riding, he arrived at the center of the city—a large open area, where the stores appeared brighter, the crowds more cheerful; and, in contrast, the piles of human misery, beggars, and disabled people were even more shocking to see.

Here the first moment of true recognition broke through the blur of familiar sensations. For here, architectural grandeur peaked in the vast, stunning façade of the Hall of the Winds and the Palace, displaying its royal flag—five colors emblazoned on a cloth of gold. But it wasn't these that captured Roy's attention. It was the group of Brahmin temples, intricately carved, rose-red from base to tip, rising amidst flocks of crows and shimmering pigeons; their solid forms sharply defined against the dusty haze; their shallow steps flanked by marble elephants, splashed with the orange-yellow robes of holy men and groups of brightly-veiled women.

At the sight of them, Roy instinctively pulled up his horse;—and there, in the middle of the moving crowd, he sat still, letting the scene sink deep into his mind while Terry sniffed around at an interesting smell, and Bishun Singh, totally uninterested, chatted with a potter, whose wheel produced an endless stream of chirághs—simple clay lamps with a lip for the cotton wick. His neighbor, with equal enthusiasm, was making oddly shaped clay animals, birds, and fish.

"Look, Hazúr—it's almost Dewáli," Bishun Singh pointed out to Roy the one thing that truly mattered at that moment to all decent Hindus. "Only two more weeks. They're making countless lamps for homes, shops, and the palace of the Maharája. It's going to be a big celebration, Hazúr."

He talked a lot about the upcoming festival to this Sahib, who showed such unusual interest in the ways of India, while Roy sat quietly, observing and remembering...

Nearly nineteen years ago, he had experienced the Dewáli—Feast of Lights; he had been driven, sitting on his mother's lap, through a magical city outlined by shimmering points of light, down to the shore of Mán Sagar Lake, where the lights danced and merged, making the ancient ruins come alive. All night, they seemed to flicker in his imaginative mind; and the next morning—unable to focus on anything else—he was inspired to dictate his very first poem....

Suddenly, cutting through the noise of the crowd and the constant cawing of crows, a scream filled with a mix of anger and pain pierced his nerves and sent a shiver down his spine.

Swinging around in the saddle, he saw a ghostly figure of a woman—separated from a group of specters, ironically leaning against bulging sacks of grain. One withered arm was raised in accusation; the other held a shapeless bundle close to her hollow chest. Clearly just a girl—yet with no hint of youth in her worn face—she stood upright, every bone visible, in front of a bangle-seller, who was plump and content, spilling out rolls of flesh over his dhoti,[8] and enjoying his hot, savory chupattis; completely unaffected by the outrageous outbursts around her; fully focused on catching drips of ghi[9] with his quick tongue so that none would be wasted.

"That shameless person was begging for a bite to eat," the toymaker said casually. "Her stomach is probably empty. Wah! Wah! But she doesn’t have any money. And a man's food is his own...."

As he talked, a white bull walked by, grazing freely; its privileged nose getting closer and closer to the delicious smell. Quickly, with respectful eagerness, the man offered half a fresh chapati to the sacred visitor.

At that, the starving girl-mother jumped forward with the scream of a hunted animal; she lunged right across the path of a stylish young man in an English suit, green turban, and shiny shoes.

"Calm down, you she-devil! Move aside," he shouted; and grabbing her wrist—which looked like it would break with the slightest touch—he shoved her aside so harshly that she stumbled and fell, the child underneath her letting out a weak cry....

Since the days of his imprisonment, the cruelty he witnessed had a shocking impact on Roy. From the moment he jumped off his horse in a fit of rage to when he stood facing the polished, Westernized Indian—riding crop in one hand and the other supporting the girl and her baby—his mind went blank. The action was done almost before he realized it. He wondered if he had hit the man, whom he was now angrily confronting in fluent Hindi, and whose sulky, shifty face reminded him of someone from somewhere....

"Do you not have any respect for suffering—or for women besides your own?" he asked, his expression and tone full of scorn.

The man's shrug in response was clearly filled with disdain. "You English are all crazy," he said in the local tongue. "If she doesn't die today, she will die tomorrow. And there are already too many to feed—"

"She’s not going to die today or tomorrow," Roy said confidently. "Stay strong, little mother,"—he spoke to the girl—"you’ll have food, both you and the baby."

As she lifted herself up, grabbing onto his arm, he felt uncomfortably aware that her torn clothes probably had bugs; his noble compassion mixed with disgust. But his compassion won out. He helped her to a nearby stall, where he bought fruit, which she devoured like an animal. He asked for a little milk in a lotah and gave her money for more. Half dazed, she dropped the money, drank from the small jar almost in one go, and threw herself at his feet, pressing her forehead against his dusty boot, leaving him embarrassed. He firmly told her to get up. No response. So he bent down to enforce his command....

She passed out.

"Help, Mom—hurry!" he called out to an older woman who was standing close to the stall and instinctively reacted to his urgent tone.

As she leaned down towards the girl, he said in a low, hurried voice: "Listen! It's an order. Give her and the child some warm food. Take her to the Burra Sahib's compound. They'll take care of her there. I'll let them know."

He slipped two rupees into her hand and said, "Two more when everything is finished as planned."